This Tale's Been DeFairied
by Cinvxten
Summary: Kenny has slowly built a tolerance to fabled "Happy Endings." What makes him think he deserves one now... now that everything has changed. He can't wait for his white knight any longer! It's time for him to make his own escape! Kenny/Butters, Stan/Kyle
1. Once Upon A Time Doesn't Cut It

So... uh... I don't know the inspiration for this actually. It was sort of a culmination of different events that just flowered into this story idea. I'm really putting a lot of thought into this, though, so please do enjoy it. And I have a Beta now, too, so if you see any mistakes... blame her! Ha ha... ha.... There's really only going to be like three chapters to this, but each one is going to be as long, if not longer than this one right here. Wow, I surprisingly have little to say about this story other than I'm really excited for it!

Hey, SekritOMG, I think I'm going to dedicate this story to you (and my Beta - you know who you are) because I dedicated _"When We Practice, We Make Perfect"_ to Foodstamp, and I think you're very deserving of it. You've been very good with speaking to me and putting up with my weirdness, so I think very much so that this fanfic will be dedicated to you! Hooray!

**Disclaimer: I actually have to be serious about this one, you guys, because the first few paragraphs I did pull directly from the fairytale of the same name. So... whoever wrote it first... I didn't write it, I just quoted it. Plus, I don't own South Park or any characters therein.**

Enjoy!

* * *

**This Tale's Been De-Fairied**

_"Sometimes, she stopped to stare into the lighted windows of the houses along the streets. All the houses were decorated in honor of the New Year. Delicious smells wafted out to the street, making the little girl feel hungrier._

_At last, she came to a corner between two tall stone houses that was sheltered from the icy wind. The little girl sat down there and pulled her feet under her, hoping to warm them. But it did no good. The cold air seemed to sink into her very bones._

_The little girl was afraid to go home, for she had not sold any matches that day. She knew her father would probably beat her for that. Besides… besides… be –"_

Kenny McCormick still had no idea what had happened to that poor, unfortunate soul in "The Little Match Girl." He could never make it past that one sentence. He had read every single story in his small pocket book of Fairytales over a thousand times, and could recite each fable by heart: "Beauty and the Beast," "Rumpelstiltskin," "The Three Little Pigs," "Little Red Riding Hood," "Jack and the Beanstalk," "Sleeping Beauty," "The Steadfast Tin Soldier," "Puss in Boots," "Rapunzel." But between the pages of that tiny book and its almost blindingly small print, Kenny had never managed to finish "The Little Match Girl."

He could get lost for hours contemplating the fate of curious Jack if he had just told the old merchant on the road to fuck off instead of selling his heifer for some third rate beans. He could imagine the prince's frustration if Rapunzel had decided to get a hair cut to spite him for not having the foresight to bring a ladder. He could even stomach the thought of little pigs getting mercilessly slaughtered for a hungry wolf's afternoon meal, and then go off to eat a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, without feeling the slightest bit of remorse. But as soon as he read of the father beating his child just because she couldn't sell her matches on New Year's Eve, Kenny would choke up and slam the book closed, hearing the nearly ancient tome's spine crinkle in protest.

"The Little Match Girl." What kind of fairytale was that, anyway? What was with all these authors' fascinations with the word little? Was it because it was all part of their moral – even the smallest of people can make a difference if you just endure your hardships long enough? Or was it to play off their target audience for profit – little children who still believed in the lies these books so harmoniously strung together for the inevitable and tragically false promise of a "happily ever after." Cute, little anthropomorphic kitty with a shoe fetish triumphs again for the side of indelible good; but no one ever mourns for the Ogre King after our well intentioned feline gobbles him up. And we tell these morbid tales to our children.

Kenny glanced at the cover of his pocket book, trailing his fingers over the hard back binding, feeling the friction of his fingertips draw smoothly across the face, leaving streaks of sweat and oils behind upon the eternally smiling facades of nostalgic heroes from decades past. They looked so happy, trouncing through the forest in a cluster fuck of imaginary creatures. Kenny sighed, dismally, as he shuffled the thin novella back and forth between his hands, debating on whether or not he would actually finish "The Little Match Girl" this time. He shook his head, watching his blonde bangs as they quivered with golden excitement and stuffed the book back into the confines of his coat pocket.

The bus he was riding on hit a pothole in the road, and a residual wave caused him to bounce in his spring loaded and not too comfortable seat a few times before settling back down to a slight tremble. The hum of the bus would have been enough to put him to sleep, if it weren't for the ever unpredictable interruptions of the Colorado terrain. _Somebody should really fix these roads_, Kenny thought, his stomach churning nauseatingly. _Preferably before I get sick all over these seats!_ By the smell of the tearing leather, and the shoddy tankard as a whole, Kenny convinced himself that he wouldn't be the first to lose his lunch on this shit-hole of a bus.

Glancing out the window, he inconspicuously blew his hot breath onto the dingy, speckled pane of glass – just on the off chance that the old man in the back of the bus and the woman with her crying child could see him and think he was immature. I mean, really? A 28 year old fogging up a window? Unsightly is merely one of the words you could use in that situation, if not humiliating and retarded. Kenny was only partially disappointed when the window didn't even moisten; what did he expect? It was June, for Christ's sake. He had no idea what he would have written, anyway, besides a very frail "Help me."

They were nearing South Park, Kenny could tell. Not by the familiarity he had for the land, but for the feeling in his bones. The landscape was maddeningly similar and constringent here in the mountains. Not just people, but _things_ as well refused to change, having an innate desire – no, need! – to conform, if but for the sole reason of having normalcy and a welcome lack of confrontation. "Here's far enough," he mumbled to himself, standing with a groan and rigid defiance from his knees. He had to stretch first before he could reach his lone duffle bag residing just above him in the overhead compartment. He was way too young to be feeling this stiff.

Kenny walked, or rather, tripped, his way down the aisle between the rows of seats, bracing his hands against their backs to keep his balance. As the metal husk of the bus shook every five seconds, Kenny was beginning to think the bus driver was hitting these bumps in the road on purpose, just to make his stumbling journey to the front even that more awkward. "You can drop me off here," Kenny said, raising his voice over the roar of the engine. "I'll walk the rest of the way."

"You sure?" the man asked, peering over his glasses at Kenny instead of watching for traffic.

"Oh, yeah," he responded, inching closer to the double doors. The sooner he could be off, the better. And he needed the exercise.

Even as he thought it, Kenny knew that was a total lie. He didn't need to be walking at all. He just had an acquired fear of staying in one place for too long. He didn't want to be anywhere long enough for people to get accustomed to his face and may have the opportunity to remember it.

"Alright," the driver drawled in his exaggerated southern accent. Kenny rolled his eyes; it wasn't like they were _that_ far from the Dixie Line, asshole. "But just to warn you, we're almost to the town of South Park." He braked to a stop after having pulled over and whipped open the bus's passenger doors, a little aggressively.

"Thanks for the tip off, sonny," Kenny saluted in a mocking accent of his own, and tramped down the three steps that dropped him off onto the hard ground below. "God forbid I actually knew where I was going."

The bus slammed shut behind him, nearly clipping the end of his bag with a spiteful chomp. The exhaust pipe belched a smog of black fumes as it petered back onto the road with a clatter of steel. Kenny followed it with his eyes for a while, but it was going in a straight line on the only road for what appeared to be miles, and he quickly lost interest. He trained his gaze on the vacant and awaiting West. He squinted his eyes back down to the lonely and abandoned East from which he had come. He stared at his feet with indecision. "Now…" he pondered aloud. "Where am I going?"

It wasn't like South Park was he preconceived destination. But when the ticket manager asked him where he wanted to go, Kenny couldn't think of any place other than his home town. One thing was for sure, though. He despised South Park. That village was the very embodiment of everything Kenny hated: intolerance, confusion, alcoholism, family, memories. To be blunt: his travesty that he dared to call a past; and even when he did, it left an acrid taste on his tongue. Kenny wiggled his toes inside his boots and made a skid mark in the snow with his sole. Only in the Colorado mountains could it be fifty degrees and still have a blanket of that white powder. It was just another reason to hate South Park.

This place had hurt him in more ways than one… in more ways than could be counted. Every time he strayed unwillingly down Memory Lane, all Kenny could ever find were harsh, bitter recollections. After turning 18 and graduating from the shackles of high school, he couldn't have split from that hell fast enough. He and his old friends – Kyle, Stan, and Cartman, what were they doing now? – partied that very night like there was no tomorrow. And there wasn't one for Kenny. Not in South Park at least. The only reason he even showed up to that party and didn't catch the first train out of there was so that he could say goodbye to his buddies one last time. He didn't even drink anything, even though they begged for him to stay.

"Just one hour," Stan had chuckled, his words already slurring. "I swear, we'll get you drunk, we'll play all your favorite music, it'll be a fucking blast, dude! You won't ever want to leave!"

"If he wants to go, let him go," Kyle shrugged, trying to be as sophisticated as he possibly could, drinking from the bottle neck of a beer. "He won't even make it all the way to the train station before he stops the bus and pleads on bended knee for the driver to turn around."

Kenny had just smiled at them and readjusted the duffle bag strewn across his shoulder. So, he wasn't gonna say goodbye after all, if they were going to be that way. He had been halfway out of the backyard before they even noticed he had left them. "Oh, c'mon," Kyle was shouting, cupping his hands over his mouth. "I was just kidding, Ken! Get back here!"

"Yeah, faggot," Cartman chimed in. "Don't walk away angry, just walk away!"

"Shh, keep it down guys," Stan cautioned. He was trying to prod more life from the embers of their prospective bonfire with a spoke, marshmallow remnants sizzling on the steel rod, unknowingly spilling his drink with his other hand. "They'll call Officer Barbrady on us like last time."

Kenny hadn't even turned around to see their faces. He only grinned wider. They were still so immature. Like little children; drinking cheap beers under the moonlight, worrying about cops busting them, making smores in their safely contained fire. They were still just kids at heart, it was actually pretty funny. But mostly very sad. As for Kenny, he was out of there. He was going, going, gone.

And, boy, did he go.

But, if his lessons in Physics class weren't totally misremembered, Kenny ventured that his ultimate displacement at this point was a whopping… zero. Back to where he started. It was such a hollow feeling to know that he had gotten absolutely no where, and his heart never failed to remind him of it. Still debating whether to go into town or hitch a ride to the nearest bus terminal, Kenny half expected to walk into Stan's backyard and find them all still there, dancing around their fire in some end-of-the-school-year tribal ritual, just like he'd never left.

But who was he kidding? If any of them new what was good for them, they would have hopped on the train with Kenny all those years ago. Ten to be exact. Ten years he's been away from this town and all its misery. Ten years that had never been more miserable.

Kenny wasn't at a crossroads, for a straight road only leads two ways. He only had two options: keep going into town or go someplace else. So why was it so hard? Here he stood, planted, practically rooted to this spot, letting the wind bite against his face with an unusually brisk air, barely even considering in which direction he should go next. It was all just a blur. Kenny felt like he should be carrying around a packet of matches, trying to sell them… but he didn't want to go home at the end of the day and be hit by his old man. Who would buy matches from a vagabond?

He patted the pocket book at his breast and entertained the idea of sitting down and reading it for a while. So what if he got a little wet from the snow? Those fairytales helped to clear his head, so it would all be worth it. Besides, it wasn't like his knight in shining armor was coming anytime soon to point him in the right direction.

The high pitched whir of a motorcycle caught Kenny's attention and his ears perked up involuntarily. By the sound of it, the bike was heading in his direction from the East end of the street. It also sounded very far away. The hand that Kenny had originally intended to fish for his collection of fables was instead used to shield his eyes from the sun as he peered down the road. Like a little faded dot in the distance, he could see the motorcycle barreling towards him. Now, he wasn't the biggest fan of people watching, but out here were people were uncannily few and far between, it was hard not to look.

The cyclist took nearly five minutes just to reach Kenny's general vicinity. The bike sped past him, going at least 45 miles per hour before screeching into a sharp U-turn, leaving skid marks and smoke in its wake. It passed Kenny again, slowing considerably before making a second U-turn and pulling off to the side of the road, just feet from where he was standing.

The guy – he was unmistakably male – knocked out his kickstand and expertly leaned it over so that it stayed put. The bike was a Honda Shadow Spirit 750 C2, mint condition. Kenny was obligated by man laws to give a whistle of approval. The only problem was, the bike was supposed to be silver, but had at some point in time been spray painted white from head to toe, and not very professionally. And it was splotched with mud and all other assortments of filth from what seemed like years of use. Or, from a motorcycle connoisseur's point of view: _mis_use.

"You're looking very Tom Joad- esque," the man pointed out, his voice giving off a muffled undertone through his helmet. He had on the stereotypical leather jacket that was quite flattering on him, Kenny had to admit, and he was wearing dark jeans and commando boots. It was a stark juxtaposition from the egotistical white of the bike he was perched upon.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Kenny shot back, trying to judge if he knew this person or if he was just one of those annoying bastards who couldn't go anywhere without striking up a conversation with everyone they met.

"Read it and find out for yourself." He procured from one of his pockets a paper back book entitled "The Grapes of Wrath" with a rubber band twisted around it to keep the pages in place. With a flick of his wrist, he lobbed the book at Kenny who caught it, one handed, cocking an eyebrow with measured suspicion.

"I have some material of my own I can indulge in, thank you," he replied, tossing the paperback into its owner's hands again, taking the edge of his tone for appearances sake. Probably just force of habit.

The man fumbled with it, caught off guard. "Fancy that," he said, just coyly enough to avoid being taken as rude. Without a second glance, he chucked the book over his shoulder and it landed on the ground with a soggy thud. Perhaps he was crazy. Perhaps he was a pathological litterer. Or, as Kenny surmised by further observation, it was more just to free up his hands so that he could pull a wrinkled map from his jeans' pocket. "Tell me, fine sir, am I currently headed toward the city of South Park?"

"Unfortunately for you, the answer is yes," Kenny mumbled, not even impressed by the man's complete lack of concern for his possessions. "But it's not much of a city. And if I were you, I'd turn myself around and never look back. Even if you're just passing through. That place is the ass crack of our modern era."

"Interesting," the man said, undulating the word across his tongue for no apparent reason. He stuffed the unopened map back into his jeans and turned around to mess with something else on the other side of his bike. "I'll take my chances. I've got no problems."

Kenny couldn't resist being cynical. "I'm _looking_ at you and I see five problems."

The man straightened up with the diligence of a meerkat. They were both silent for a while, attempting to judge each other just by their respective stances. "Oh ho, feisty, aren't you?" the guy said at long last. Kenny hadn't even seen him grab the camera, but before he could reply with another biting retort, he was blinded by the photographic flash.

"Did you…" Kenny started, trying his best to remain unfazed. "Did you just take a picture of me?"

He didn't answer, and they both remained still, Kenny poised on high alert.

"No," he responded, innocently, his expression indiscernible from behind the mirrored gleam of his visor. Moving nothing but his pointer finger, the shutter to his camera clicked again, and for a second time, Kenny was immersed in dizzying light.

Pretenses of toughness thrown by the wayside, Kenny recoiled and rubbed his eyes vigorously to clear out the spots in his vision. Before he could fully recuperate, the man revved up the engine to his motorcycle and tore off down the road towards South Park. "What kind of fucker are you?" Kenny shouted after him, his eyesight finally clearing out.

"The best kind!" the guy chortled back, flipping Kenny his middle finger as an insolent goodbye.

* * *

Birds. Thank fucking God, Kenny could hear birds! That meant there were trees coming up, which also meant that he was getting out of this tundra wasteland and into a place that wasn't white-washed with snow and patches of brown, wilted grass. He had no idea how much one could long for the color green when you've been walking down a vacant highway for an indeterminable amount of time. Kenny kept his eyes low, focusing on his boots which were caked with mud, having walked through the slushy quagmire all day.

In the end, Kenny had decided on going into South Park. He tried not to think too much about it, content with distracting himself with thoughts of his sweet revenge. Expressing his cordial antipathy to that bastard from before with a healthy serving of Kenny's foot up his ass was the driving force behind his motivation. He wanted to make sure that the guy didn't have the luxury of his supercilious get-away bike so that they could talk, man to man, without worrying about another untimely escape. It wouldn't take him four hours. He just wanted to get in and get out. Maybe move to Canada or something.

Four hours. Maybe five, tops. Kenny remembered his watch and rolled up his sleeve to read it. It was already a little past noon, he couldn't really be exact. He never learned how to read the hands on a clock; everything was digital now, and watches were really just status figures for the wealthy and elite. And, in any case, this particular accessory was easily the most expensive thing Kenny owned. Tavin had told him it was nearly 500 dollars when he gave it to him for Christmas.

"Tavin," Kenny lamented. "Shit, shit, shit." The watch jingled as he loosened the band from his wrist, almost breaking the silver joints as he struggled with it in a hectic frenzy. With jittery movements, he hurled the watch down to the ground, making a small chink sound as it was embedded into the mud. How could he have been so stupid? All this way! He came all this way with that god damn wristwatch, blissfully ignorant.

Kenny trudged off for a few paces before turning back around and stomping the heel of his foot into the silver band, over and over again. Stupid! So stupid! It could have ruined everything! That watch could have traced him back to everything! And yet, since it was a gift, Kenny had thought nothing of it. What an idiot!

He took sullen gasps as he tried to calm himself, but his mind was reeling with worst case scenarios and swift retribution. He dug his boot deep into the watch again, sinking it into the road side with a disgusting squelch, until he could no longer hear the ticking. There. Calm down. Relax. What do you think this is, a science fiction novel? They didn't have that kind of money. They couldn't. Things like that are only in the movies. No need to freak out. Kenny sighed with relief, satisfied with his mantra of discursive consolations. But now… he had no idea what time it was.

"Alright, biker bitch," he growled out loud to himself, cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect and increasing the length of his stride towards South Park. "Now I'm in a particularly foul mood. You picked the wrong day to fuck with McCormick!"

The gamut of Kenny's schemes was narrow to say the least. He hadn't even thought out what he was going to do to regain his honor from the man. He wasn't even sure whether the man did anything wrong. In fact, he should have been flattered to have his picture taken. But with all of this pent up frustration, there had to be an outlet, and who better to serve as his scapegoat than the guy who flipped him off? What was the word he was looking for? Something in Latin… lex talionis, that was it. An eye for an eye! Fuck yeah!

He was so consumed by his rage fueled tirade and sudden fascination with Latin sayings ("carpe diem"; "veni, vidi, dormivi"; "qui sera sera"… wait… that one was German, wasn't it?) that he didn't even notice the caravan of pitch black hummers careening down the highway. The first one zoomed past him at 85 miles per hour, and the other three followed in suit at a more reasonable 55. Kenny's hair was whipped about in the following gusts that trailed behind them, and he stared on like a kid in a candy store.

Those things were nice. Really nice. Why couldn't he have nice things like those? So what if they were gas guzzlers and harmful to the environment, you could run a person over with one of them and not even dent the fender! Damn, Tavin would love one of those.

Kenny hit himself square in the head until he saw stars. What was this, a prevaricating symptom fresh from Stockholm? He set his legs in motion again, blowing away the dust kicked up by the hummers' tires with an amused stream from his lungs.

With no scope of time whatsoever, Kenny could only make a rough estimation as to how long it actually took him to make it to the outskirts of South Park. Somewhere around another twenty minutes perhaps, and his feet throbbed in opposition to his walking decision. The first place he came to – still around thirteen miles till the town proper – was a three story building surrounded by nothing but foliage and dirt roads leading into a semi-distant forest past a meadow of tall grass. Trees were scarce except for a large oak tree in front, shading the left side of the home.

It had to be a home of some sort, obviously. It was made completely out of wood paneling, including a cozy porch out front and deep red shutters on every window. None of them were shut to let the sun's exuberant rays flood the inside. If anything it looked like a large farm house that reminded Kenny of those in old westerns that he'd seen in his youth. It even had a painted shed in the backyard somewhere just beyond its picket fence. The only oddity that set it apart from a regular house was the dirt and gravel parking lot that connected it to the road. And sitting idly in the sunshine were those four gleaming hummers, unattended.

Kenny approached them in an unwieldy gait, simpering to himself. He kicked at the wheels of the most fractious car – while all the others were parked straight, this one was diagonal; and judging by the tracks in the dirt, it looked as if the driver had attempted to park it straight several times before giving up. If he had a razor blade, Kenny would have slashed the tires. Why? Maybe because he felt like being a jerk. Maybe because they had unwittingly reminded him of Tavin. But Kenny went to great lengths to convince himself that it was exclusively because he was a jerk.

Even if he did have a razor blade – which he didn't – he wouldn't have been able to do shit with it, since right at that moment a gaggle of men, all wearing business suits and carrying expensive looking cases, burst through the screen door. They were grumbling back and forth between the six of them, adjusting their ties and whining like toddlers. Kenny quickly backed away from their vehicles and put on his best _I didn't do nothing_ face. With a slam of car doors, the hummers' engines sparked into life, and three of the four tore from the parking lot and headed directly for South Park, leaving only the diagonal car behind.

"I can take a hint," Kenny mused, nodding. "This place must be bad news." He looked down the asphalt river at the imperial black hummers as they scattered debris into the air in their hasty retreat. "Those guys have the right idea."

He continued to meander on his way into town, none too thrilled about the thirteen mile walk ahead of him. There was a sign not too far ahead, facing the other direction that looked to be a mile marker. Kenny got excited and ran to see if he had been wrong and was actually closer to South Park than he expected. But his shoulders only drooped even lower when he turned to read that it was only an advertisement.

"Winterbloom Bed and Breakfast" he mumbled aloud, reading off from the wooden sign. The caption beneath, in italicized lettering, promised: _A rose amidst wintery Colorado blizzards._ Kenny let out a succinct laugh and placed his hands on his hips. How corny could you get? At least the owners had a sense of humor… he hoped.

Glancing past the sign back down towards what was apparently an Inn for tourists, he eyed up the place with scrutiny. It was homey enough, to be sure. But probably run by a 90 year old grandmother and her army of attack kittens. Why would anyone want to stay –

"Sneaky little fucker," Kenny snickered, silently commending the fellow for his hiding place, intentional or otherwise. "But I've got you now." Kenny's mind instantly froze as he scanned the span of fence running along the building. There, leaning up against the wall of the Bed and Breakfast was a white Honda Shadow Spirit 750 C2.

He ran all the way back to Winterbloom, ignoring the duffle bag slapping up against his back and bruising him with every step. Stealth not being one of Kenny's fortes, he merely walked right up to the motorcycle, naïve and defenseless. He pulled his belt free, unzipped his fly, and straddled his legs, hovering over the bike with a triumphant grin. He needed to find a place to take a piss anyway. No better spot than here.

After the deed was done, Kenny nonchalantly sauntered back into the parking lot, feeling very accomplished. He spied the black hummer again and begrudgingly admitted to himself that his interest had been piqued by the arrival of those businessmen, and his curiosity flared up as to why at least one of them didn't leave. Not to mention that the cyclist was still here at the Bed and Breakfast, obviously, and Kenny still had time to give him a piece of his mind. And by "mind," he actually meant "fist."

_What's one night?_ he kept telling himself as he clomped up the wooden stairs to the awaiting screen door. Just before he entered, a small, out of the way plaque caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He chuckled softly and leaned into it to read the engraving.

"Proprietors:" it started off, innocently enough.

"Probably something like George and Henrietta Curmudgeon-Smith," Kenny laughed to himself.

"Proprietors:" he read out loud again, tracing his finger over the words. "Stan Marsh and Kyle Brof… Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski?"

Kenny gulped, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. It couldn't be. It was just too surreal. Perhaps all of his travelling and lack of sleep had finally culminated into unprovoked hallucination. Stan and Kyle… running a Bed and Breakfast? A fallacy, a falsehood, no – better yet – a fairytale!

"Hello?" a voice called from inside. "Come on in, already. We charge extra for solicitors and loiterers." There was a pause. "Don't make me say please."

He hesitated, rendered motionless by a wave of familiarity. It was deeper and weighed down with the sum of ten years and all the experiences that came with it… but that voice was unmistakably Stan's. Even to _Kenny_, though he hadn't been blessed with hearing such a welcome and recognizable soliloquy in so long a time.

Like a ghost, Kenny padded into the building. He didn't deserve this. This had to have been some cruel joke of the gods. His heart pounded with longing as he slowly turned the corner to face a slim counter, register splayed open atop it. Stan glanced up from his ledger briefly before returning his gaze back down to his work, scribbling something with a pen in his delightfully illegible chicken scratch. But even that one moment was enough for Kenny to see his bright, blue eyes, sharp and full of a hidden wisdom. His mouth hung open in concentration as he cheerfully finished up his pecuniary note.

Laying the pen down with a breath of exultation, Stan poised himself against the counter, fixing his eyes on Kenny before finally climbing from behind the barrier. He was wearing a plain navy blue baseball shirt with faded jeans that he used to wipe his hands down the pants' legs; not at all what you would call professional attire. "Will you be staying with us this evening, Ken?"

Kenny averted his eyes, looking every which way other than at Stan. He let his duffle bag drop to the floor and drank in his surroundings. It was a Bed and Breakfast… enough said. His heart sank a little, being let down from the rush he was enjoying not a moment before. He lifted his arms slightly in a dull shrug before letting them fall back down to his sides with a thump. "That's it?" he asked, swallowing.

"That's what?" Kyle huffed, sweeping in from the other room. He clattered plates of china and silverware into Stan's hands, who rolled his eyes and left through a separate opening into what appeared to be the kitchen, practically throwing the plates into the sink.

"Well…" Kenny began, scratching the back of his head nervously. "I wasn't exactly expecting trumpets and fanfare but… don't I at least deserve a proper greeting?"

"You didn't exactly give us a proper farewell, Kenny," Kyle pointed out, taking his place behind the register. He too was dressed casually; just a green hoodie with DeVry University in gold letters and slender khaki's. "You expect us to throw ourselves at your feet? We were under the impression that you liked mellow greetings."

"You were kinda a jerk, dude," Stan added, walking from the kitchen, through the vestibule and into the next room.

"I _am_ a jerk," Kenny said after him, watching him walk around in the dining hall, collecting dishes and cups.

"Regardless," Kyle interjected. "You haven't answered the question. Will you be staying here at Winterbloom for a while, or are you just drifting through like some sort of waif?"

"Old friends get a discount," Stan excitedly sang through his teeth, carrying more dinnerware into the kitchen.

"Enough with the willy-nilly discounts, Stan!" Kyle barked as he disappeared behind the wall. "Do you want to run a successful business and actually make some profit, or not?" His sentence was punctuated with the sound of more dishes being dropped off into the sink.

Stan returned, beaming. As he walked by, he opened his mouth to say something, but Kyle cut him off. "I swear to god, if your next sentence includes the word 'Jew,' I will punch you in the face!"

"Ouch!" Stan laughed, directing his attention at Kenny and winking. "Don't be such a Jew, Kyle."

Kyle vaulted himself over the counter with a surprisingly spry leap and chased after Stan. Kenny staggered backwards as they dashed all over the place, weaving in and out of rooms, until finally they ended up in the dining room. Stan hunkered down and when Kyle ran into him, he expertly grappled Kyle around the waist and lifted him up into the air. They whooped and hollered together, Stan bending Kyle in half over his shoulder and spinning them around in a circle.

They were getting dangerously close to the table with all of their rough housing, and the inevitable ultimately occurred. Kyle's foot swung right by a tall champagne flute, knocking it onto the hardwood floor below, shimmering into splinters. Kyle's guffaw was replaced by a gasp as Stan snickered under his breath, and set him down. "Aw," he wheezed. "You broke the glass!"

"I did not!" Kyle denied, panting hard, examining the mess.

"Yes, you did."

"Did not!"

"_Your_ foot touched it last!"

"That's not _my_ fault!"

"I never said it was your fault, I said I was going to _blame_ you." Their mock anger was completely betrayed by their sporadic fits of laughter. Kyle walked over to a corner and picked up a broom. He shoved it harshly into Stan's torso.

"Here," he spat. "Clean that up."

"Aw," Stan groaned like a dejected child. "Kiss and make up?" Kyle rolled his eyes and leaned in for an embrace, having to stand slightly on his toes to reach Stan's lips. They got lost for a second in each other's bodies, visibly enjoying the physical apology.

When Kyle finally broke from the kiss, he playfully slapped Stan across the chest. "That glass is coming out of your paycheck!"

"Oh, like I get paid!"

Kenny laughed in the background, trying to compose himself, awkwardly. "What?" Kyle inquired, crossing his arms.

"Nothing," Kenny breathed, feeling his smile still warm against his face. "It's just… you two are so young."

"You too," Kyle said, brushing past him on his way back to the counter. "I mean, we're only 25."

"28," Stan corrected from the other room.

Kyle was not to be denied. "25!"

"28."

"25!"

"28."

"And get a dustpan for that, don't use your hands!"

Stan audibly sighed with exasperation and pushed between Kenny and the door to walk all the way into the kitchen, just to retrieve a dustpan. "God, Kyle, do you have eyes everywhere?"

"No," Kyle chastised. "I just know you well enough."

Kenny chuckled again and they both looked to him, searching for the punch line. He waved them off as if wiping their suspicions from existence. "Nothing," he assured them. "It's nothing." Both Stan and Kyle continued to stare wistfully, almost like they were finally acknowledging that after all these years of absence, one of their long lost friends had just miraculously shown up on their very doorstep. "By the way," Kenny began, clearing his throat. "Is Craig… Craig Tucker here by any chance?"

Kyle started up from his ledger, momentarily wide eyed. "No, I don't think he's arrived yet. How did you know he was gonna stop by today?"

"It's just that…" Kenny was having a difficult time choosing his words carefully. There was so much he just wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. None of which he could ever tell them. But the urge was almost unbearable. "It's just that I think we chatted it up a little on the highway a while back. He gave me his middle finger in place of a friendly wave before he shot off down the road on his motorcycle."

"Motorcycle!" Kyle gawked. "When did Craig and Thomas get a motorcycle?"

Kenny took in a sharp breath and held it as he let the sentence fully sink in. "Craig… _and_ Thomas? They're together now?"

"When _aren't_ they together?" Stan insinuated, strolling back to the counter, wiping off his hands with a towel.

"Ugh, Stan, you did these numbers all wrong," Kyle mumbled aside, shaking his head.

"That's why you handle the money," Stan retorted. "So, sue me. Bring it on, I can take a lawsuit."

"Oh, har, har, very funny."

Kenny withdrew into himself and stared at his shoes. He didn't get it. Of course he didn't get it. What did he think was going to happen? That he was just going to walk back into their lives and know everything about them like nothing had ever changed? That wasn't just unlikely, it was down right stupid of him. But he didn't pry. No, he didn't dare ask about what they had done over this past decade. Because then they might return the question….

"Kenny." Kyle's voice broke through his morose and he looked up with a fake smile. Stan was jingling keys at him with sincere smirk.

"Best room in the house," he explained, chucking the keys at Kenny. "Nothing less for our best friend."

"You really don't have to –"

"Nothing less," Stan repeated forcefully. "…for our best friend." He grabbed Kenny by the collar of his jacket and brought him into a firm hug, his nose nuzzling into the side of his friend's neck. They were so close together. It was the first time in forever that anyone had been this close to Kenny without having to beg for it. "Tonight, over dinner," Stan whispered into his ear, the tickle flittering through every nerve in his body, "you'll tell us everything. We'll swap stories, get drunk, and then go to bed."

Kyle approached them and wrapped his own arms around the two of them, laying his head on Kenny's shoulder. The blonde instinctively flinched and immediately cursed himself for it. "We really did miss you, Kenny," Kyle mumbled, muffled through the fabric of Kenny's close.

How? How could something so familiar feel so absolutely foreign and terrifying?

When they pulled back, Kenny could have sworn he felt tears burning behind his eyes. Alone again. Even though they were still there in that room together, Kenny felt nothing but utter abandonment. _They all leave_, he thought to himself. _They always leave in the end_.

"Craig and Thomas will be here around 5:00," Kyle informed, checking his ledger back at the register. "They're always hilarious. Who knew that everybody and their mother would visit our humble abode today?"

"So…" Kenny started, reverting back to normal – if there was such a thing anymore. "Whose bike is that then?"

As if on cue, someone clattered down the stairs. Kenny recognized the commando boots first, and then the dark jeans. The man was already slowing his pace when his black leather jacket came into view. He stopped completely, his head just out of sight, the offending camera strapped across his chest, off to one side. In a daze, he took the last few steps and entered the hallway.

"Butters?" Kenny nearly choked.

"Kenny!" he exclaimed, his sky-blue eyes sparkling and his face lighting up with a smile. "Oh my god, I can't believe it's you!" He rushed forward, arms open wide, grin even wider. He halted uncomfortably as Kenny dashed his hopes for significant contact by extending his hand to shake instead. Out of all the blessings that had already been bestowed upon him within these last precious minutes, this was one Kenny – the proverbial anathema – simply could not accept.

Butters was stunned at first, unsure of what to do. At last he forfeited his grandeur and shook hands, even though Kenny's was limp and abnegated. "Why didn't you say something on the road?"

"I thought," Butters sighed, shaking his head dumbly. "I know it sounds crazy, but I thought that since we were both just passing through, it would be best if we didn't get tangled up in some… spiteful reminiscence." Kenny resorted to a chuckle, because his emotions had not properly prepared him for such an encounter. Butters just bit his bottom lip with a dubious expression.

"You know me," Kenny lied. "I always have time for friends. And I'm never spiteful unless I wanna be."

"You were pretty spiteful out on that highway."

Kenny winced away and breathed through a clenched jaw. "Yeah, about that: your bike…"

"Enough about that," Butters interrupted, holding up his hands and giving a 'time-out' sign. "So, how about Kyle and Stan are total assholes and are making me run into town to buy – you'd never guess – more alcohol."

"Among other things!" Kyle defended himself in a strident whine. "We've got lots of people coming over! And we're not assholes, you asked us for work!"

"I'm a little short on cash," Butters ejected with a nonchalant shrug.

"Join the club," Kenny snorted, lifting up his worn duffle bag for all to see. "At least you have a motorcycle. Which reminds me, I really should tell you this –"

"Oh, Kenny," Stan said, "let me take that to your room for you." He extended his hand to take Kenny's duffle bag, but the blonde recoiled like a cobra, bringing the soft pack close into his body. Even Stan flinched in surprise at the sudden territorial display.

They all stared on in silence, judging him from afar with anxious eyes, waiting for an explanation. Kenny was torn between his past and his undeniable need to explain. He settled with a veiled truth. "That's fine," Kenny said, relaxing his muscles. "It's just that… this bag is everything. No, I literally mean _everything_. All the things I own in this world are either the clothes on my back or… inside this bag. So," he paused to take a soothing breath. "Forgive me if I'm a little possessive of it."

"Oh, Ken, that's tragic!" Kyle commented from the register.

"Yeah, I guess so. I haven't really changed clothes since last week. It's not every day I get to wash this stuff, so I make it all last while I can."

"Then you'll need some new clothes," Kyle, the abrupt fashion diva, implored.

"Hey," Butters added, hitting Kenny in the bicep with a manly push. "You can ride into town with me! We'll go shopping and all that shit! Pick you out a nice, leather Speedster like mine."

"I think you guys missed the part where I said I was broke."

"Eh," Kyle shrugged. "Stan and I have a few extra bucks we can give you."

"Oh, do we now, Mr. PennyPincher?" Stan scoffed from the doorway.

Kyle shot him a scathing leer. "We can afford to deduct some money from your pay. You're a slacker anyway."

"And just where is all this money that I'm supposedly being paid?" Stan laughed, walking into the kitchen with an exonerate gesture from his arms. "I've certainly never seen any of it."

"Because I manage all of your income, idiot," Kenny shot back, following him into the next room, bickering back and forth all the way.

"So it's not really my money then."

"Of course it is; you're just such a god damn spendthrift that I have to make sure you don't blow all of it when you get it!"

"So what am I to this Bed and Breakfast, then, if the owner can't even manage his own expenses?"

"A factotum."

"Sounds delicious, we should have that for dinner."

"Shut the fuck up, Stan."

At some point, during all the commotion, Butters had inched his way to Kenny's side. He raised his camera right to his friend's face and clicked the shutter. If Kenny wasn't already blind before, he was undoubtedly blind now. "So you wanna come into town with me?" he asked, just like a little kid that knew he did something wrong, but was avoiding it anyway.

"Actually," Kenny started, pensively. "I was thinking that I'm really tired. I think I just want to take a nap."

Butters' joyful visage faltered, if but for an instant. "Yeah, sure, I understand," he said quickly. He donned his helmet, shutting the veil between them and barged through the screen door. It banged shut behind him as he called back, "See you at dinner!"

Kenny lingered, fidgeting with the hems of his clothes, and didn't move until Butter's motorcycle was as far out of his peripheral as possible. "Shit," he swore, for more reasons than just one… but mostly because he had forgotten to warn Butters about his bike.

* * *

Kenny had set the alarm clock on his bed side stand to go off at 4:00. A three hour nap would do him worlds of good. It had been such a long time since he could lay down his head and not worry about who was coming to get him next. The far off hustle and bustle of the Bed and Breakfast industry slightly perforated the thick walls creating a sonorous melody of clinking plates and hushed laughter. It was the perfect lullaby for Kenny, and no sooner had he closed his eyes than did he fall asleep.

It would have been a splendid rest, if Kenny had not been perturbed the entire time by a nightmare. There, through his mind's eye, he was sitting in an amber plane with gently wafting wheat in the cool breeze. Mountains in the distance acting as majestic sentinels. He and Butters were together, on separate ends of checkered blanket with a picnic basket anchoring it against the soft wind. They were smiling together, and laughing together, and enjoying each other's company in a way that they had never experienced before. They held hands and touched each other. They were happy.

Kenny shot up from his slumber with a gasp, dripping in cold sweat, the alarm clock calling him back into the world of reality. When he turned it off, he glanced at it for the time. It was 4:25 pm. He hadn't even heard it go off. But the nightmare was still there, in the back of his mind, causing his heart to race and his eyes to water.

He got to his feet and nearly wept again when he saw there was a shower in his room.

After getting washed up and changing clothes – he was going to have dinner with friends after all, might as well look presentable – Kenny picked the pillow he had used for his nap up off of the floor and placed it back onto the bed's crisp and untouched sheets. He could still hear people on the first floor, milling around the house and making small talk. Part of him hoped that Butters was back, and part of him hoped that he had just kept on driving. For Butters' own sake, at least.

To Kenny's astonishment, Tweek Tweak was at the counter when he came down the stairs, talking to Kyle. He was just as jittery as ever, dressed in a formal button down shirt ("Buttoned" wasn't really the correct way to describe it… more like "mangled") that was pale green and light gray business pants. His sandy blonde hair was a complete disaster, but he pulled it off with surprising grace. His hands were shaking erratically as he folded, unfolded, and refolded a segment of a bedspread that he had carried down from his room.

"Tweek, for the last time," Kyle said, barely maintaining his equanimity. "It's not fleece. I swear to you."

"Well, is it down, you know, with goose and duck feathers and all that shit?" If you had blinked, you would never have seen his mouth move. But that's just who Tweek was; always has been. All nerves and run-on sentences moving just a hair above the speed of sound… and absolutely no sanity. "Cause I really don't think I'll be able to stand having goose feathers jamming into my every pore all night long, it's just so annoying to – there! I think I felt one, right _there_, I swear to god, if this is down I'm going to throw it out the window at some point in the middle of the night and smother some unsuspecting cat in the garbage can – gah! – this is all too much pressure! Where the fuck did Bebe go?"

Kenny didn't say hello, they looked terribly busy. Although, Kyle did shoot him a _get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-before-I-become-homicidal_ look. Kenny just shrugged with a cruel smile and continued walking.

He found himself wandering out through the back door and into what appeared to be a garden. There were tomatoes hanging from tall stalks and cabbages all in a row. Further down, the vegetables slowly grew scarce and blossoms of flowers and other decorative beauties awoke in their place: roses, geraniums, lilies, and lilacs. Bees buzzed happily from petal to petal before flying through the air back to their hives. It was all very peaceful, to say the least.

A medium sized tomato rocketed from nowhere and splattered all along Kenny's pant leg. He jumped back with a growl as Stan revealed himself from behind a row of bushes shading the white picket fence. He was howling with laughter, even from under the daggers Kenny was glaring. "What?" he snickered. "People throw tomatoes at bad comedians all the time!"

"I didn't get to the punch line yet," Kenny responded, putting distinct emphasis on "punch."

"Oh?" Stan simpered. "I thought your face was the joke." He brushed his hands down along the apron tied around his hips. But not all of the dirt was rubbed off; when he scratched his nose, he left a big smudge mark across his face. It was mildly adorable, actually.

"You think my face looks ugly?" Kenny mumbled self-consciously.

"No, that's why I said you were a _bad_ comedian."

"So, what are you doing out here, anyway," Kenny asked. "Other than heckling the weeds for their knock-knock jokes?"

"Gardening," Stan said, happily. He held up a single handed spade to prove his point.

"My god," Kenny chortled, folding his arms across his chest. "Could you get any more gay?"

"Yeah," Stan agreed, giving himself a once over. "I guess the apron doesn't help at all does it?" He got down on his knees and beckoned Kenny over, who obliged politely. Down here, behind the tall bushes, everything and everyone was hidden. "You see, we've got a system here at Winterbloom. I do all the cleaning and gardening and provide comic relief when the occasion calls for it, among other things. Kyle, on the other hand, handles the money, the registry, and the cooking."

"Stan, where are you?" Kyle called from inside the house, strikingly similar to a nagging wife. "This dinner's not gonna make itself."

He winced beneath the foliage with a guilty smile. "Okay," he admitted to Kenny in a whisper. "So I do all the cooking, too. Kyle just sorta handles the money."

"And this is what you went to college for," Kenny scoffed with a condescending click of his tongue. Stan got up and brushed himself off again – it must have been compulsive or something.

"No," he corrected, heading for the door. "I graduated with a Bachelor's Degree in Law."

Kenny's mouth dropped open. "Then what the hell are you still doing here in South Park, dude?"

Stan looked back with a shrug. "I have a Bed and Breakfast to run."

"So you're happy here?" Kenny breathed in disbelief. "You're… content to live out your life like this?"

Stan had his back to Kenny, his shoulders drooping low and his hands limp. "Not at all," he said, his voice solemn and cold. He looked back, his mouth a thin line of an attempted smile. "The only things keeping me from blowing my brains out are Kyle and the few friends who visit every couple of months. I hate this place. Why the fuck would ever come back here, Kenny?"

They were quiet, both contemplating means and ends that never seemed to justify each other. Stan broke the ominous silence with deep sigh. "I have a dinner to make," he said, excusing himself.

"Hey…Stan?"

"Yeah, Ken?"

There was a wet splat as a red, ripe tomato jettisoned into Stan's chest, spraying juicy collateral damage all over his front. "You little bastard!" he shrieked with delight and pounced on Kenny. But his friend was a much more battle hardened wrestler than Kyle ever was, and soon, Stan was on his back, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. They pushed obtrusive leaves from their faces and laughed at each other, unabashed.

Kenny felt good. No, he felt great. He lighted his fingers over his friend gently, groping for his wrists and holding them down with just the right amount of force. He closed his eyes before leaning in closer, choking down a practiced, lustful gasp.

No sooner had their lips grazed against each other did Stan jerk away, wide eyed. He wrested his hands free and swiped Kenny off of him, striding for the backdoor in unspoken aggravation. Kenny pounded his fist into his leg and bit down on his tongue with shame.

"Stan, wait," he pleaded, stretching out his arm. Stan was not so angry as to let a friend go unheeded, especially if it meant an explanation. He turned around to glare at him, his brow furrowed in disappointment. "I'm sorry," Kenny said, his voice trembling. "I just… I didn't know what else to do!"

Stan blinked, looking on with an air of disgust. "Don't give me those eyes," Kenny begged, cowering away. "I can understand that you're angry, and I swear I didn't mean it. So please, just don't look at me like that."

Wiping the sweat from his forehead along with his bangs, Stan scanned Kenny over one last time, his face softening. He gave his best comforting grin before nodding his head with understanding. "Dinner will be ready soon," he said, as if nothing had even happened. "We've picked out a spot for you at the table. Far from Tweek. You'll thank us later!"

Kenny would have thanked him then. For not ousting him into exile at the first mistake. That's how you know who your true friends are. And, Kenny would thank him again. Because Tweek was incorrigible.

"Tweek!" Kyle shouted as they paced through the kitchen, at last losing his cool. "I'm not going to pluck out all the feathers in your bed spread, so would you please stop asking?"

"Well, I suppose I can manage for one night, but if I have to continually use this sheet, I'm going to lose so much sleep, and I just can't have that right now, because there's this very important meeting I'm hosting at Head Quarters with all the big corporation guys and I have to look presentable, so I guess I can go out sometime tomorrow and –"

Kyle rubbed his temples and tried to take slow, deep breaths. "Where the fuck is Bebe?"

"I'm here." Bebe walked into the kitchen, clicking over the tile with her high heels, taking long, proud steps besides being constricted within her tiny, gray business skirt and blouse. Over her shoulder daintily hung a large, faded, pink purse. Under her other arm, she carried a thin folded blanket. "I was out at the car. I remembered that Mr. Tweak brings along a spare sheet for just these kinds of problems. I would have been back sooner, but I took it upon myself to fix Mr. Tweak's parking job."

She swished her frizzy blonde hair from her eyes and rigidly handed Tweek his new comforter. Tweek dropped the down bed spread that was slowly being shredded in his hands and took up the sheet, petting his against his cheek, lovingly. "Oh, cotton," he squealed. "Never scare me like that again! I'm going to go put you on my mattress this instant!"

"You're welcome, sir," Bebe added, toneless, as Tweek dashed from the kitchen and up the one flight of stairs. Kyle growled to himself and leered at the comforter lying dirty on the ground, as if it would evaporate into the air by sheer force of will.

"That's gonna have to be washed," he acknowledged, placing his hands on his hips. "Stan, could you come clean this up?"

"I'm making dinner, Kyle," his lover reminded, hovering just within reach of the oven, mixing together a few ingredients to make stuffing.

"Grr!" Kyle snarled, collecting the sheet unceremoniously into his arms.

"Oh, I know, honey," Stan mocked from the stove. "Life's _so_ unfair."

"I'm no good at this kind of thing; I'm going to ruin it, you know that!"

"We can always just buy another one."

"With what, Stan? Hopes and dreams?"

"With all that money that exists in my imaginary paycheck."

"Well I… aw, fuck, you got me there."

"Go wash the sheet, Kyle."

"I'm going! I'm going!"

Bebe was straight faced as she pulled out a Blackberry from his purse and flipped through her day planner. "And just what will you be serving?"

"Excuse me?" Stan garbled, his mouth full to bursting with a taste test of stuffing.

Bebe's visage almost cracked into a smile, but she retained her poise. "For dinner. What will be having for dinner?"

Stan swallowed and added a pinch of salt into the mix. "A heaping helping of factotum. Mmmm!"

"Shut the fuck up, Stan!" Kyle called from wherever the laundry room was (Kenny had yet to explore the whole of the Bed and Breakfast). "We'll be having chicken and rice in a cheese sauce with stuffing and mixed vegetables."

"Chicken, I see," Bebe mumbled disapprovingly as she typed something into her Blackberry. The walls shook as Tweek practically fell down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Bebe," he gasped. "I couldn't get the bed spread to fit on the mattress, one of them is obviously bigger than the other, so you'll have to do it for me."

"I'll tend to it immediately after supper, Mr. Tweak." Kenny noticed that when she spoke to anyone _other_ than Tweek, Bebe kept her eyes concentrated on something else, like her palm pilot or purse. But as soon as Tweek walked into the room, she was alert and ready for anything.

Kyle trudged back into the room, having started the washing machine. When he saw that Tweek had returned, he looked torn – he visibly didn't want to be in the same room with him, but wanted to stay polite as a respected owner of an establishment. That, and Tweek had already saw him walk into the kitchen and had his sights set on him like a homing beacon.

Tweek bypassed Stan at the oven all together and sought out Kyle. "Hey, uh, buddy, you wouldn't happen to have any coffee, would you?"

"I already showed you all the coffee we have when you first arrived," Kyle answered, his brief reprieve in the laundry room not sufficient enough to douse his frustration towards the abrasive customer.

"Yeah, but, none of that's good coffee, and I can only drink good coffee, but you're right, I definitely should have specified myself, but I will now, just to be on the safe side, so, Kyle… do you have any _good_ coffee?"

Kyle laid his hands onto Tweek's shoulders, who jumped at his touch and shuffled on his feet like an impatient child waiting to use the restroom. "Tweek," Kyle started, keeping his voice professionally calm. "All of the coffee we have – _all of it!_ – is in that cupboard, the one I showed you before. We have nothing else. If you have a preference that is not within that array of coffee, then I am sorry to inform you, but… we have no good coffee to offer."

Tweek cringed and took in a sharp gasp. He swiveled his head toward Bebe with desperate, puppy dog eyes. Bebe sighed, set down her purse on the table, undid the metal latch, and retrieved from inside a rectangular bag of ground coffee. Tweek tore from Kyle and skidded into the table, picking up the bag with eager hands.

His entire face dropped as he read the label for a fourth and fifth time. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Tweak?" Bebe asked, and Kenny was absolutely baffled at how she was able to keep herself so serene in the face of such madness.

"Something wrong?" Tweek echoed with a twitch. "No, no, nothing's really wrong. It's just… this is Emerald Coffee House."

"Yes," Bebe confirmed.

"Yeah, but, Bebe… _Emerald_!"

"What's wrong with Emerald, Mr. Tweak?"

"What's wrong?! What's wrong – what's wrong with Emerald? For god's sake, Bebe, what _isn't_ wrong with Emerald? I guess it's nothing big, but I could have sworn I told you not to buy Emerald anymore, it's not even one of my favorites to begin with, but even in the market it's falling from popularity, especially because of that article, did I tell you about that article, I read an article the other day, Sunday – no, Monday – no, it was Sunday – but I was reading an article on Monday about Emerald coffee and I'm sure it warned against buying Emerald because it has agents in it that cause cancer – cancer, Bebe, _cancer_! – do you want me to get cancer, do you know how much pressure that would be on me, I can't get cancer and Emerald has been proven to give people cancer, but you know – "

Kyle rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure coffee in general gives you cancer, Tweek."

" – if you want to give me Emerald coffee, I'm not going to stop you, cause I'll drink it, even if I don't want to, I'm a fighter like that, a martyr, but you see, Bebe, the problem with this that I'm having is I'm pretty sure I told you to never buy Emerald anymore, and you just keep buying Emerald, no matter what I tell you, and I have to warn you that this isn't looking good for you job wise, do you want to keep your job, Bebe, obviously not, since you keep buying Emerald, and I'll tell you right now, I can fire you right here if you really wanted, you can be replaced with a snap of my fingers, it's no big deal to me, but what is a big deal is that right now in my hands is Emerald ground coffee, something I specifically told you not to buy, so if you want to keep your job, which I would expect that you do, then in the future I'd advise against buying Emerald!"

Bebe's face was completely stoical. When Tweek finally had to stop to catch his breath, she leisurely reached back into her purse and pulled out another rectangular bag labeled: Bronze Ground Coffee Beans. Tweek stared at it for a second before snatching it into his hand.

"See, now was that so hard?" he spat, stomping toward the coffee brewer on the opposite side of the room.

Stan and Kyle both cast their gazes at Kenny, their faces scrunched up in dread. "Ho - ly shit!" Kenny mouthed silently back, and the two of them nodded in unison.

Tweek fumbled at the counter, babbling under his breath at the coffee bag, his unsteady fingers unable to work the plastic top open. Bebe waltzed over to the refrigerator and scoured the inside, pulling out a tomato and a head of lettuce as if she owned the place. "Do you have anything other than Iceberg?" she huffed, displaying the green leaves in her hand to Stan.

"You can look," he replied, shortly. "Doubt it. May I ask why? You want a salad with your meal?"

"No, but Mr. Tweak will be having a salad in lieu of what you are preparing," Bebe declared, opening a few drawers before finding a knife to cut the red tomatoes with. "Chicken makes him irregular."

"Gah, chicken!" Tweek cursed, not even looking up from the bag which he had yet to open.

"I really didn't need to know that," Stan said. His water was only just now coming to a boil, much to his annoyance. Meaning it would take him that much longer to cook the rice. Stan ducked around the kitchen, scouring for his misplaced tongs, practically crawling over the still coffee bag challenged Tweek who refused to move out of the way for him.

Bebe was placing a bowl that she had found on the counter and commenced to make the salad. Kyle danced around the kitchen looking for a corkscrew for the wine, and Stan hurried to finish making supper before 5:00. Kenny merely leaned against the far wall, drinking in the fiasco with hungry eyes.

"If you want, Tweek can have something else as well," Kyle offered, now searching for a glass. He had claimed it was to make sure the whine tasted okay, but in reality, he just needed some alcohol in his system to calm his nerves. "Stan also has mixed vegetables."

"I don't like peas!" Tweek yelled, resorting to using his teeth against the ground coffee bag.

"Mr. Tweak doesn't like peas," Bebe repeated.

"Well," Kyle tried again. "Stan's making stuffing too."

"It's too dry!"

"What?" Stan barked. "You haven't even seen it yet!"

"Too dry!"

Bebe laid her palm against the back of Stan's hand in a comforting gesture. "If Mr. Tweak says it's too dry, it's too dry." Stan begrudgingly turned the other cheek. From the other side of the kitchen, there was a poof of brown powder as ground coffee beans spilled everywhere; in a single sporadic twinge, Tweek had ripped the entire bag of Bronze Ground Coffee Beans completely in half. Kyle would have torn his hair out if Stan wasn't there to stop him.

Rushing to his side, Bebe shooed Tweek away and readied the coffee pot herself, hoping to avoid any machinery with even the slightest amount of economic value from being ruined. Tweek, rendered with nothing else to do, wandered from the kitchen, unattended.

"I would ask if you have any cream and sugar," Bebe said, "but I imagine that it wouldn't be _good_ cream and sugar."

"You're solution?" Kyle grumbled, melting under the inaudible sweet-nothings that Stan was whispering into his ear to help soothe him against the Tweek induced eruption that was likely to occur.

Bebe sighed and rubbed her temples, before returning to assembling her boss' salad. "I believe I have a spares of Mr. Tweak's favorite cream in my purse – if he hasn't gotten to them already – and any sugar will ultimately do, without much complaint."

"Good, you take care of it," Kyle said, making his words less sharp now that Stan had loosened him up. Bebe clicked her tongue.

"I always do, that's my job."

"Did you have a nice nap, Kenny?" The blonde jumped with a start as Butters appeared at his side, joining him like a pair of spectators to a rodeo. Kenny gulped dryly, remembering his hellish dream.

"Yeah, I'd say it was decent enough."

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know if it rained earlier today, would you? My bike was a little wet when I went into town this afternoon."

Kenny rubbed the back of his head with chagrin. "Um… about that –"

"Now, c'mon guys!" Stan raised his voice, breaking his usual joviant demeanor. "Do you want your dinner or not? I can't have you guys trouncing around my kitchen like this!" He took the tray of cooked chicken that was on the counter and handed it to Kyle. "Here, put these back in the oven to keep warm."

"The oven?" Kyle drawled, sounding confused. "B-but… on which rack?"

"Do it now, Kyle."

"B-but… for how long?"

"_Now_, Kyle!"

"It's like a big, dysfunctional family!" Butters commented aside, making Kenny chuckle. "I think Stan would be the mom, and Kyle would be the dad."

"They definitely fit the part," Kenny agreed with a simple nod.

"And I could be the goofy uncle from Arkansas who's a bit confused and wears women's clothing on Tuesdays." Kenny laughed again; Butters had put way too much thought into this scenario.

"And you would be…" Butters started, waving his hand, coaxing Kenny to fill in the gap.

"And I would be…" he started, licking his lips. "I would be the little match girl they were nice enough to let stay for a while."

Butters pursed his lips in a pout and was about to say something before Tweek broke into the room with frantic, heaving breaths. He started for Bebe but made a sharp B-line for the coffee pot, drank directly from the half full brew, set it down, and charged toward Bebe again.

"Button me!" he shouted, gesticulating wildly towards his chest. Bebe stopped everything she was doing to undo his mismatched shirt and re-button it. Far too slowly for Tweek's intentions, apparently, as he hopped up and down on his feet like a toddler. "_Button me button me button me button me_!"

The command was not completed a moment too soon, as Craig tromped into the kitchen, a very meek Thomas trailing behind him. "Hey, hey, hey!" the boisterous Craig yelled, throwing up his arms as a universal greeting to all. "Where's the booze? Let's get this party started!"

Thomas attached himself to Craig's waist and looked about to sneeze. "Sh-shit!" he spat, and immediately relented. "Excuse me."

"Hi, Craig," Tweek waved, doing his best to sound seductive. When he laid his eyes on Thomas, his face fell. "Hi… Thomas."

"Hey," Thomas replied, more to everybody else in the room than to Tweek. "We're a bit early. Shit, cock! Excuse me. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all!" Stan cheered, clapping his hands once to bring everyone's attention to him. "This would be a great time for you all to relocate to the dining room. _Please_."

Tweek ignored Stan completely. "Here, Thomas," he offered, coating his venom with sweetness. He grasped hold of the Emerald Coffee House bag and showed it to him, speaking through his teeth. "Would you like some coffee? I can make you a pot if you'd like." Bebe rolled her eyes and finished up the salad.

"No thanks," Thomas respectfully declined. "I don't want you doing anything special for me. I'll just have what's in the pot – ass fuck! Ugh, excuse me. I'll just have whatever is there."

"It's Bronze Ground Coffee," Stan informed, leaning over the table, head in his hands. He'd finally given up. If they wanted to have a late dinner because of their chatting, then so be it.

"Oh, Bronze!" Thomas' face lit up. "That's my favorite! Sure, I'll have a cup, Tweek!" The other blonde quivered, failing to keep a pleasant look on his face as his cheeks flushed. He threw down the bag of Emerald with a cry of agitation that made everyone's blood curdle and stormed from the kitchen.

Craig coyly wrapped his arms around Thomas' neck from behind and nuzzled him cutely. "So, uh…" he began, looking around the room. "Does that mean dinner's ready?"

* * *

The food was delicious from what Kenny could attest to. He had really only eaten two medium sized bites before setting down his fork. He wasn't hungry – his stomach was in knots from being around such familiar faces. And yet they were all so different. Like he was eating dinner with complete strangers that had stolen the bodies of his former friends.

Kyle had already downed his second glass of wine when Stan asked if anybody would like a grace to be said. Nobody there was devoutly religious, and none of them wanted to put upon their fellow guests, so no one spoke up. Kenny didn't mind all that much. He was currently between religions anyway; perusing his options. He was beginning to lean towards being a Nihilist, though.

Silverware clinked against plates as people ate their food with little interruption. Every once in a while the silence was broken up by Thomas when his Tourettes flared up and he was forced to shout into his napkin. Annoyingly enough, every time the young man made any sudden movements at all, Tweek would cringe, tossing salad leaves all over the table as a result. "Don't they have any dressing that isn't Italian?" He tried to whisper to Bebe, but it came out as more of a cough. His assistant reached below the table to her purse and phenomenally brought out an individual package of Ranch.

"So, if my little bird hasn't deceived me," Craig addressed the group while winking at Thomas. "I hear a big stud will be joining us sometime this week. An animal by the name of Clyde Donovan? Anybody know him?"

"That's true," Kyle confirmed, cutting up his poultry. "And Wendy called this afternoon. She's on vacation right now and has time to spare this month, so she'll be dropping in as well. It'll be like having the entire gang back together."

"Screwy," Stan commented before eating a spoonful of vegetables.

"Funny how things work out for the better," Butters said. He was sitting to Kenny's immediate left at the table. Butters had opted out of the complimentary Merlot and instead requested a beer; Budweiser to be exact. Even through Kenny's peripheral – as he was doing everything in his power to _not_ look at Butters – he could tell that the sentence was directed specifically at him. Kenny took another bite of his meal to remain inconspicuous, and played with the rest of the food on his plate.

"That reminds me," Kyle said, nodding towards Butters. "Where did you go, dude? First you were in college to learn how to be a teacher and then, bam! Halfway through your second term, you drop off the face of the earth."

"Not dropped off," Butters corrected, brandishing his knife with a twinkle in his eye. "_Been over_, Kyle. I've been all over the globe since I left, living care free from plane ticket to plane ticket. That's why I can't stay for too long, you guys. Two weeks is my maximum. I'm catching the next plane to Prague. I hear it's gorgeous this time of year. I've always wanted to go there."

"Prague," Stan mused, letting his hands fall to the table with a sigh. "Did you hear that, Kyle? Prague. Prague! Why can't we go to Prague, huh?"

"Financial issues," Kyle replied, lack luster. "Among other things."

"I'll tell you," Butter continued, cutting into his meat with vigor. "Travelling is the life, man! Once you get over all the planes and jet lag – wow! – is it just fantastic! One of the first places I went to was Tokyo, Japan. Biggest fuck off city I've ever seen. The people there are so vain, they dress up in their Sunday clothes just to go to the super market. But it works though, they all look so good all of the time."

Everybody was listening intently, except for Craig. He had dismissed himself from the table and retrieved a glass from the kitchen. He had to wrench the bottle of Merlot from Kyle before pouring it and offering the crimson elixir to Tweek. He gracefully accepted (as "gracefully" as Tweek could manage) and Thomas blinked, choking out a tiny "Fuck." But it didn't sound all that involuntary.

"That's not the only place I've been to," Butters began again after taking a sip from his beer. "I've gone to Paris, Galway, Kolkata, Brazil, Moscow, London." After each location Stan sunk further into his seat, melodramatically clutching at his heart and until Kyle finally slapped him across the shoulder to stop. "I just find a place to stay and work at a job until I get enough money to buy my next plane ticket. A few months here, a few months there; then I'm off again."

"And what about you Kenny?" Kyle asked. The blonde started at the sound of his own name and glanced around the table. He had no idea he would be involved in this conversation. "Where have you been all these years?"

Kenny slumped back down into his chair, stabbing his half eaten chicken with a fork, watching the juices flow out like blood. "New York," he answered, sullen and withdrawn.

"Where else?" Stan pressed.

"Just New York."

Stan and Kyle looked at each other with the same concerned expressions before Kyle spoke up again. "Where in New York do you live?"

Kenny swallowed and pushed his plate away from himself, folding his arms across his chest, almost as if it were a last ditch effort to defend himself.

"I don't."

The table was silent again. Nobody pushed for further detail, satisfied in their own interpretations of his answer and Kenny's reclusive repose. Kenny probably wouldn't have given them more answers anyway. He was too busy deriding himself for ruining their dinner conversation with his presence.

* * *

It was only 7:00 pm when Kenny returned to his room, resigning himself for the evening. He instinctively set his alarm clock for 9:00 pm, and groaned with disgust when he realized his habitual mistake. Tapping a few buttons, he changed the pm to am and grabbed the pillow off from his bed.

Kenny felt more at home this time in his room, for he was lying awake, listening to ambient noise from downstairs, his heart pumping with adrenaline, tricking his mind to think that someone was standing right outside his door. He stayed up well after midnight, motionless, wide awake, clutching the pillow to his chest so hard that his knuckles turned white. Yes. Oh, yes. This was much more like being at home.

It was 11:00 in the morning when Kenny finally woke up from his dreamless slumber. He had no idea when he had gone to sleep or why his alarm clock didn't go off. He gazed from the floor up to his bed side stand. The little red dot next to the digital numbers was no longer blinking, which meant that _somebody_ had to have come in and turned the alarm off. It frightened Kenny that he had slept so soundly that he didn't hear the wake up call in the first place, let alone not hearing anyone enter his room.

He took a shower, still reveling in the warm water it had to offer with unrequited love, but didn't put on different clothes, just wearing the same ones that he had changed into yesterday. Kenny took one last look at his bed, still crisp and untouched, before leaving his room and shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Stan was coming around the corner and they almost ran right into each other. Even though he was carrying a basket full of laundry, Stan still managed to lift one hand halfway to his mouth to cover his lips. But when he realized how irrational he was being, he smiled warmly at Kenny and relaxed. "Oh, hey!" he said quickly, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. He took Kenny by his arm and pulled him in close, whispering, "There's a man downstairs asking for you. Now… Kyle and I haven't told him anything about where you are, but he hasn't left yet."

Kenny nodded and started to walk away, but Stan pulled him back with a strong tug. "Kenny," he hissed, sounding troubled. "Should we be worried about you? Is there something going on? Because we can help, you know that. We're good at helping our friends… among other things."

"I think I know who it is," Kenny sufficed to say. He gradually slipped his arm out from Stan's grasp and took a calming breath. It didn't help at all, he still felt like vomiting. It was mostly just to convince Stan that he was collected, even if he himself didn't believe it. "You're all such good friends to me," he whimpered, his bottom lip quivering slightly. "It was really nice to see you again, even if it was just for a day. Thank you for being so kind."

"Kenny, what is this all about?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he left Stan questioning as he descended the two flights of stairs. Before he reached the bottom, he could hear Kyle's voice; serene, without even a hint of suspicion breaking through. "We do have rooms," he was saying. "Would you like to stay for a while? Wait for Mr. McCormick to show up?"

"Yes, I believe I'll do just that." Kenny's heart skipped a beat in horror, his doubts vanquished. "Just give me a modest room. I'm a man of simple pleasures."

"If only all our guests were so inclined!" Kyle joked – even laughed! He was an amazing actor….

Kenny finished going down the steps, feeling his veins pulse as his heart surged uncontrollably. When he reached the vestibule, the man looked up from the counter to greet him. His beaming grin slowly melted away beneath his thin glasses, flayed with dark brown hair that curled about his head. He was wearing a long taupe trench coat, in which he had his hands tucked neatly within the pockets. He was thin, but an invisible aura of power surrounded him.

"Tavin," Kenny gulped, his voice cracking.

"Kenny," Tavin smirked, his eyes glinting maliciously. He pulled from his pocket an expensive looking silver watch, caked entirely with mud, as if it had been dug up from a soggy quagmire on the side of a highway. He swung the wristwatch from his finger like a pendulum, making sure that his quarry saw it. "We need to talk."

* * *

**End of Part One**


	2. Burning This Cross I Bear

Part two! So, I was hoping to finish this all up by July 4th, but I'm pretty sure that isn't going to happen, considering how long it took to get this chapter out. Oh well, only time will tell. Also, this story doesn't look to be as popular as I thought it would be. It's only gotten like... 70 views since I put it up. Why is it that my smut gets more views than my actual short stories? I think that says something about the fandom....

**Disclaimer: When thinking about sex noises, you always look back and say, 'What made me think making that noise was acceptable? It seemed like a good idea at the time, though.' Just remember, I don't own South Park or any characters therein - however, if your with your lover and you make a sex noise that sounds like a dying giraffe, I will suspect that something went wrong and try to resque you from ze guard dogs.**

Enjoy!

* * *

**This Tale's Been De-Fairied**

**Part Two**

The only thing Kenny could hear was the sound of his own breathing; in, out, in, out, faster, faster, in, out. He concentrated on that, on his lungs. Filling them with air and slowly letting them deflate. It was all very rehearsed. He had trained very hard to learn how to breathe properly. It was the only way to keep your sanity when times were painful and humans thoughtless. Breathing was simple. Breathing was bare. And that's how Kenny felt as he stared into Tavin's unmoving eyes: stripped of everything and hopelessly defenseless.

He couldn't tear away from those eyes, for he had been conditioned so well. So mercilessly. It took all of his will power to not fall to his knees in submission right then and there. His friends were all witness to the scene, and Kenny was not standing tall in the face of his opponent. But despite all of his fears, he kept his chin up; he wanted to save his dignity from being incinerated, if but only a morsel. As soon as he thought this, Kenny almost rolled his eyes at himself in grief. What dignity did he have left?

Their staring contest had an obvious winner, as Tavin did not waver in the least. He was holding all of the cards, and Kenny knew it. He purposely blinked, defeated. _He_ had no dignity left to squander… but Kyle did. And Stan. And everybody else who was at the Winterbloom Bed and Breakfast. They were actually worth something. They had everything to lose. Kenny had to keep Tavin away from them at all costs, or at least that's what he thought. Did he… did he not want them getting involved for fear that they might get hurt? Or was it just because Kenny didn't want them finding out…?

"Not here," Kenny managed to choke out.

"Hm?" Tavin droned, raising an eyebrow with amusement. Kenny shook with unconceivable rage, clenching his fists at his side. Tavin had heard what he said, and they both knew that. He just wanted to prove to all their spectators that he had complete dominance over Kenny, and that he would follow his every command.

"We can't talk here," Kenny said, his voice quivering in a grotesque mixture anger and fear. "Can we please go somewhere else?"

"Oh!" the brunette exclaimed, nodding his head and readjusting his glasses. "Okay, I get what you mean. Yes, yes, I understand perfectly." He turned his attention towards Kyle with a cruel grin. "Would it be alright if we used Mr. McCormick's room to have a little chat? We won't be a minute."

Kyle's façade of pleasantry had been utterly erased from his visage as he glared at his guest threateningly; with all the power that Kenny wished he could muster in himself. "Kenny has the key," he said, dryly. "It's his decision."

"Oh, is it now?" Tavin chuckled under his breath as if Kyle had just told a moderately funny joke. He took up the wristwatch in his hand and looked at it like he had forgotten it was ever there in the first place. "This was a gift, Kenny," he said, sounding very disappointed. "You would crush my act of appreciation into the dust, even though you knew how much it meant to me? To us?" He jiggled the silver watch in his hand, mourning it like a deceased child. "I'm having trouble labeling your actions in any way other than irrationally flippant."

"Don't patronize me!" Kenny shouted, but he instantly cowered away under the single hot glare that Tavin imposed upon him. He couldn't even keep himself from taking a few steps back. Anything… anything to get as far away from him as possible.

"No need to become hostile, Ken," Tavin sighed, dropping the watch back into his pocket. "I was merely expressing my deep concern for your behavior, and –"

"We can't talk about this here," Kenny interjected. Tavin went rigid, staring darkly into the thin pocket of his trench coat. Neither one of them moved and Kenny's heart pounded so hard in his chest he feared it would burst from his ribcage.

"I mean…" he amended, timidly. "Could we… please… not talk about this here… please."

Tavin remained motionless for a few tortuously long seconds. After a while, he straightened up and smiled in Kyle's direction, the manager staring back like a stone statue; cold and formidable. "I'll be back down to get my room key," Tavin explained to him, calmly. "After Mr. McCormick and I have a brief heart to heart in his room."

"It'll be waiting here for you on the counter," Kyle informed, his voice low. He took a key off of a hook just behind the register and let it clatter onto the wood with a deft drop. "I have other garbage I must be tending to. It seems to be piling up lately."

"Oh good," Tavin said, unflinching. "Wouldn't want anything else stinking up this Inn, I'm sure."

Kenny swallowed hard and hoped to all the powers that may be that Kyle knew when to control his temper and back down. Luckily, Kyle didn't push his luck, barely even flaring his nostrils in agitation. He gave one last far too quick look in Kenny's direction before climbing out from behind the counter and leaving through the dining room entrance. Tavin turned back and gestured for Kenny to get moving up the stairs, which he obeyed with diligence.

They ascended the flights of stairs together, Kenny leading the way. When they turned the corner, Stan shot out from nowhere and squeezed onto Tavin's arm, pulling him in with a rough jerk and setting his lips to the man's ear. With his brow furrowed in anger, Stan whispered many things, but Kenny couldn't hear any of them. He only watched as Tavin's mouth slowly dropped as he listened intently to whatever Stan was telling him.

When he finally let go, Tavin grinned excitedly and brushed off his coat with a nod. Stan didn't wait for Kenny to look at him; he just turned back down the stairs and sauntered all the way to the bottom, probably seeking out Kyle to discuss their new customer together. Kenny's breathing was ragged again as he scoured Tavin's eyes for any sign that might be revealing, but all he did was shoo him on with his hand.

As soon as the door clicked behind them, Tavin let out a whooping laugh. "You know, Ken," he started, wiping away an imaginary tear from his eye. "At first I was a little put off by your brusque manners towards me earlier, but seeing how protective your buddies are of you, I can't blame your conduct at all! If I knew I was surrounded by such characters, I would be overly confident as well."

He slowly meandered towards the closest chair and seated himself. "I'll tell you what, that Kyle fellow has the eyes of the devil! And it's been such an unbearably long time since I've heard threats like the ones that man just gave me! It was all rather terrifying. Ah, yes, I was in need of an adrenaline rush. I'll have to thank them later."

"How did you find me?"

"Here's a little hint, McCormick: When you run away, don't go back to your home town. I should think that one would be obvious."

"Why are you here?"

Tavin glanced up from his seat, his demeanor switching from amusement to business in less than a flash. "I would say that that's a very stupid question, Kenny."

"No," Kenny denied. "No, it's not. Because if they _just_ wanted to get me back to New York, they would have sent Butch."

"Huh-uh," Tavin breathed, wagging his finger like a scolding parent. "No, you see… you would have killed Butch if we had sent him."

"And I won't kill you?"

Tavin erupted into a roaring guffaw and had to clutch at his sides to keep himself from slipping out of the chair. He got to his feet, staggering for a fleeting moment as he regained his balance and attempted to pacify himself. "Please, Ken," he chortled. "Comedy doesn't suit you. You should stick with what you know best. So quit it with the jokes, okay? You couldn't possibly bring yourself to kill me."

"How the fuck would you know!" Kenny screamed at the top of his lungs, lurching toward Tavin. He didn't take two steps before Tavin drew his gun from the inside of his coat. The black weapon glinted in the fluorescent light as his steady hand held it straight out from his body, aimed directly between Kenny's eyes. The blonde froze like a cornered animal.

"Now, Kenny," Tavin started, sounding agitated, keeping the gun level with his arm. He was speaking like he wanted Kenny to sympathize and pity him. "I had to skip work for this. I had to take a plane that wasn't first class just to get to Colorado. I had to take a bus down to the Bed and Breakfast. And, to be quite frank, I'm not in the best of moods at the moment. In fact, I'm quite irritable. I'm not accustomed to being treated like a second class citizen, and if I weren't on a mission here, I probably would have put a bullet into those two men downstairs."

Kenny gasped. "So I would really appreciate it – for _everyone's_ sake – if you would just calm down," Tavin warned, keeping the gun poised with expert precision. "I would hate to have that nice man with the laundry basket to have to break out the bleach just to clean up your blood."

"Now, I know why you're here," he continued, taking the edge off his words, but not lowering the gun; it was a part of him, like a natural extension of his hand. "You wanted to see your friends and family again! That's perfectly normal; I mean, everyone's got to get away every once in a while, right? It's totally understandable. And since you're such a prominent… 'member,' I guess we should call it… of our humble work force, Boss is willing to let this infraction slide."

"What are you saying?" Kenny asked, weakly.

Tavin held up a single finger with his free hand. "One week, Ken. We're being fucking generous here, so don't say we never did anything for you. You can stay and live it up with your friends for one whole week, but after that, you're coming back with me to New York. And, of course, to make sure you don't skip out on us, I'll be staying here as well. To watch over you. Like a guardian angel." His face glinted with enamel as he bore a toothy sneer. "Isn't that sweet of me, Kenny?"

He strode towards the door, concealing his gun again, and Kenny collapsed to the ground as if being released from a strangle hold. Tavin opened the door and looked back. With a menacing smile, he reached over on the wall and flicked off the light switch. Kenny was in the corner, weeping from shock and despair, illuminated dimly by the light from the hallway. "There's the Kenny I know," Tavin mumbled, his voice giving off traces of a lascivious tone. "You look so much prettier in the dark."

When he left, he closed the door, and everything was pitch black.

* * *

_Tavin fired the gun once, the echo of the explosion resonating like a clap of thunder. There was a heavy drop and a spray of crimson as Kenny broke his eyes away and retched. The small alcove rang again with bullets as he shot the gun a second and third time. Kenny was speechless and practically hyper ventilating, cursing this fate and its ephemeral propensity. _

"_Always shoot them more than once," Tavin was saying as he casually wiped down his pistol with a rag. "Just to be sure. I once shot a man through the head and left him here, thinking he was dead. Little did I know that I had shot him at an angle that didn't instantly kill him. He laid on that floor for three hours in excruciating agony before he finally bled to death. I actually lost a night of sleep over that one." Tavin blew some remnant dust from the gun and holstered it, staring down at the man slumped against the wall. "No, it's always fair if you shoot them more than just once."_

_Kenny was on his knees, trying in vain to smear away the blood that was splattered across his face. He blubbered mindlessly as he crawled on all fours over to the still warm corpse, his hands hovering absently over it… not sure if he should leave it alone or take it into his arms for one last farewell hug. Tavin cocked an eyebrow and curled his lips with distaste. "What's the matter with you?" he gawked. "You don't usually cry like this. Hey, just think, he's in a better place now; you of all people can't object to that."_

"_It was Granger," Kenny hiccupped. _

_Tavin was not moved. "Oh, boo hoo. So he was an acquaintance that was closer to you than some of the others. Get over it."_

"_But he was still my friend!" Kenny yelled, overpowered by the emotions surging through him. He lifted the lifeless body into his arms and held his head close, disregarding the blood seeping onto his clothes as he fondled the boy's hair. "Why kill him? He was still worth a profit!"_

"_He had AIDS!" Tavin shouted back, as if that were the answer to everything._

"_Does that make him any less of a person?!"_

"_No, but it _does_ makes him less of a profit." Tavin brushed his fingers through his brown bangs and laughed in disbelief. "What is this? After five years of being here, I'd think you'd be used to this kind of stuff." _

_Kenny rocked back and forth on his haunches, cradling the head of his former colleague and sobbing with heavy pants. Tavin begrudgingly gave him a minute, standing still, waiting for him to have his pointless goodbyes sated. Kenny reverently laid Granger back down onto the cold, hard concrete and sniffed. _

"_Take him to Cooky." _

"_Can't I…" Kenny wheezed, his eyes beet red with tears. "Can't I just… throw h-him in the furnace l-like I did w-with Chris?"_

"_That was a one time deal," Tavin reminded, dropping a large, vomit green blanket down at his side. "And besides, you know how the economy is these days. We can't afford to pass up this opportunity." He paused on the off chance that Kenny might actually say something, but all the blonde did was continue to cry. Tavin cleared his throat and headed for the stairs that led out of the secluded basement. "Take him to Cooky," he commanded again, stomping up the wooden steps. _

_Kenny tried to remember what it was that Granger had taught him: how to control his breathing. But he was still mastering the technique, and now, the man who taught it to him was at his feet. Instead, Kenny nearly passed out from his shallow gasps before he finally calmed down enough to pick up the blanket and unfold it. He stretched it out over the floor, trying to get back into the routine – appalled beyond all reason that this was actually starting to become nothing but a routine to him. He had trouble seeing through his watery eyes, but didn't dare wipe them away. His hands were covered with Granger's blood, and he absolutely could not be contaminated with AIDS. _

_He pulled the weighty corpse along the ground until it was closer to the blanket. He leaned over Granger one last time, manically using his palm to close the lifeless right eye (Granger's left one had been replaced with a gaping wound from where Tavin had shot him, the bone of his skull gleaming white against the red of the soft tissue underneath). With a cry of utter despair, Kenny applied his full force to rolling the body over onto the sheet so that it was right in the middle. _

_Before he furled the blanket, Kenny involuntarily took a moment to try and fathom this whole situation. With the others, he just hadn't thought about it, and managed to still fall asleep that night. But this time, the grave severity of it all struck him with all its might. Granger was here not six minutes ago, alive – sprawling and pleading for his life… but alive – and now he was gone. Almost like he had never been there in the first place. Almost like he never existed at all._

_He wrapped the body up and felt himself gag a few times, but there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. With a breathless grunt, he heaved the body over his shoulder and tried to stand. A pool of blood made the concrete slick, and Kenny's foot slid out from underneath him. He landed on his knee with a dull crack and screamed out in hysterics, his body quaking so badly that he could barely attempt to stand again. With much difficulty, he finally managed to ascend the stairs, even with the heavy mass that was Granger on his back, and stumbled into the kitchen._

_With a dark, vespertine glow cascading through the high windows, the boys all assembled at their benches for dinner. None of them sat until Butch gave them permission, and when he did they all eagerly took their seats. Tavin grinned on from the door, standing guard like the over seer that he was. One by one, the bowls of watery soup were distributed to each of the thirteen men as they played with their filthy spoons in anticipation. _

_Dante had just brought his first spoonful to his lips when Otto tapped him on the shoulder and forced him to stop. "Wait, wait," he hissed in a whisper. Dante did his best to glare, but he didn't have the strength, so he abandoned the effort and just stared on, blankly._

"_What?!"_

"_Look at Kenny," Otto said, pointing. _

_Kenny sat by himself at the furthest end of the table, but closest to Tavin. He already had his bowl of supper, but had skidded it away from him with a half hearted push. Instead, he was using his time to read up on "The Steadfast Tin Soldier" from his pocket book of fairytales. _

"_Aw, fuck," Alex cursed, joining them in their assessment. He sighed and set down his own spoon. "So which one of us is missing?"_

_They all glanced around the table, counting heads, and asking for names. _

"_Granger," Evan mumbled, letting his shoulders drop as he gazed into his reflection that shimmered back through the soup. "Shit, dude." They all swallowed their hunger and pushed away their bowls with morose. All except one._

_Dante stared down at the meal, latching onto the twisted spoon with an unsteady hand. The tremors coursing down the length of his arm caused ripples to shift in the bowl. He was blatantly trying to keep himself from bawling, and was failing miserably. _

"_They haven't fed me in days," he sobbed, his voice cracking. The others didn't say anything. They didn't even move to comfort him. One would always like to assume that they would never fall so low. But when one is starving…. With a ravenous cry, Dante leaned into the bowl and took two voracious gulps. "Granger," he wailed between spoonfuls, tears streaming from his red eyes. "I'm s-so sorry… so s-sorry…." _

_The other boys just focused their attentions on something else. _Anything _else. But no matter how much they pretended not to care, none of them could drown out Dante's pained gasps as he continued to eat. There was nothing left for any of them to say, for they were all thinking the same exact thing:_

_Which one of us… will be next?_

* * *

"Kenny?" The first thing Kenny saw was the sliver of light that rushed in from the hallway. Silhouetted in the door was Kyle. "Kenny?" he called again, groping along the wall to find the switched and flicked it on. The darkness dispersed in a burst of light and the blonde shied away from it. He was crouching in the corner of the room in a fetal position, his face in his knees. Kyle approached him and wordlessly sat down beside him.

The red head put out his hand and slowly rubbed Kenny's back genuinely attempting to ease sanguine comfort into the tightened muscles. And it wasn't fake or forced. It was genuine concern; something that Stan and Kyle never seemed to be exhausted of. Kenny flinched at his touch, feeling the fool, the wretch, the cipher. But he didn't stop, only pulled him in tighter, until Kenny's shakes eventually died down.

"I may have majored in business," Kyle started. "But I also minored in psychology. And even if I didn't, any idiot could tell what you're going through. And it's not healthy, Kenny. This is physically and mentally damaging to you, and I can't see you reduced to this. I won't allow it."

"It's alright," Kenny waved him off, finding his voice. "I won't let him intimidate me like that anymore. _I_ won't allow _that_."

"It's us against him," Kyle reinforced. "We're all your friends here, and we outnumber him. Just stay with us and you'll be fine. The best thing we can do right now is ignore him and pretend he isn't there until we can think of something more permanent."

_You don't understand!_ Kenny shouted in his head. _It's not that simple! It's _never_ that simple!_

"But we have to make sure you want us on your side." Kenny shot a bewildered stare at Kyle. His friend's visage was sad, but within the lines of his face, written into the already forming wrinkles across his brow, Kenny saw hurt and suspicion residing there. He was only 28, and yet he was so old. Whatever happened to celebratory bonfires and beers? Whatever happened to marshmallows in fire pits and friends laughing at the night? Where the fuck did those days go? Why didn't he drink? Why the fuck didn't they try harder to convince him to stay?

"Are you on our side?"

Kenny withdrew into himself again. What a loaded question. For that, there was no right answer. "I can't be allied with anybody," he responded. "I'm alone in this."

Kyle sighed and stopped rubbing Kenny's back. "I guess what I really want to ask is… did you kiss Stan yesterday?"

Kenny swallowed. He knew it'd come to this. What a joke. What was all this third degree for: a territorial display of ownership? What kind of person are you that you can ignore the person crying at your side and think only about yourself. What a joke! What a little kid you are, fighting over your playthings. Grow up, Kyle. Grow up!

"I'm not angry," Kyle assured him, accepting his friend's silence for the unmistakable yes that it was. "Did you honestly think he wouldn't tell me? I know… life's been tough. Ten years can change a whole lot of things. But it can't change friends. If you say that… if you say that you 'didn't know what else to do' then I'll believe you. I don't understand that explanation, but I'll believe you."

"I'm just surprised he stopped at the kissing." They both looked up at the doorway to see Tavin leaning against its frame, sipping from the edge of a coffee mug. When he saw that they were glaring at him, he played dumb. "I'm sorry," he said in a vitriolic sigh. "Was this a private conversation? I had no idea."

"Kyle," another voice came. This time it was Butters. He peeked hesitantly in at first before entering the room, shoving Tavin out of the way. "Kyle… Wendy's here. She just parked her car and is gathering her bags."

Tavin shrugged into his cup before adjourning to his own room and Kyle leaned over Kenny, giving him a short but caring peck on the top of his golden head. "Don't worry," he whispered, before leaving and going back down to the front door. Only Butters remained, but he nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously distraught at Kenny's current misfortune.

"Are you alright?" he asked gingerly. "Is everything going to be okay? How are you feeling, Kenny?"

Kenny pulled himself from the ground with minimal amount of struggle. He walked up to Butters, shrugging with remorse every step of the way. "I've never been better," he confessed. He broke out into a spiteful laugh and took a few steps backwards to make distance between them. Butters just stared on in wonderment, completely confused. "It's the truth," Kenny shot, throwing his arms into the air. "I have never been better. I have never been better than this!"

Before he could do anything about it, Butters lunged into him. Even though he only stood as tall as Kenny's chin, he somehow managed to surround him – enveloping him in an exponential embrace that filled the room, filled the house, filled the world! There, behind the protection of Butters' arms, he was safe. And nothing, come hell or high water, bullets or brassards, could defile him. Kenny rested his chin onto Butters, his eyes squeezing out one last tear that was different from all the others. He breathed deeply and mumbled, "This has never been better."

When they went outside, Tavin was standing outside of his door, drinking innocently from his little cup. With his arm around Butters' shoulder, Kenny felt strangely empowered. "You," he growled, jabbing a governing finger in Tavin's direction. "This entire week… to my friends, to me… you are invisible. Got that?"

Tavin stared him down for a second, peering over his glasses. After a pause, he gave an immature shrug and pursed his lips with indifference. "Sure," he said, as if it was nothing. "I'll keep the lowest profile possible. As long as you agree to stay within the premises of the Winterbloom Inn. We'll have no problems."

"Good," Kenny stuttered, hardly believing what he was hearing. He wanted to ask what the catch was, but with Butters so close, it was not a discussion to be had. Tavin wasn't the only one who intended to keep a low profile. Kenny continued on his way downstairs, feeling confidence swell in his chest; it was almost like getting away with murder.

Before they got to the stairs, Butters turned his head around and stuck out his tongue like a brat, directly in Tavin's face. Kenny clenched his fingers around Butters shoulder to warn him not to go too far, but he interpreted the cautionary squeeze for an encouraging one. He stuck both of his middle fingers into the air and waved them insolently with glee.

Tavin smirked, unfazed. He took another sip from his coffee mug and shaped his own fingers into the form a gun. Lifting his hand up, he winked one eye closed, setting his sights inescapably down Butters' heart. He drew in a short breath before hissing out through his teeth a very insinuating:

"Bang."

* * *

They were all standing on the porch like a welcoming committee, watching with an impatient fervor as Wendy pulled her bags from the trunk of her car. The suitcases were laden with untold riches; Kenny assumed that, anyhow, imagining that Wendy had been just as well off as everyone else had been. His own mangy duffle bag was beginning to look more and more like a proverbial spindle to which his finger was constantly pricking. He just wanted to fall into a deep sleep, surrounded by the thorns of his own past.

"Don't say anything," Stan whispered to Kenny, and the blonde stared at him with perplexity. He didn't elaborate, only returning his gaze to Wendy. The girl was tromping down the parking lot, lugging her suitcases along, looking eager to set them down and quickly. But, nonetheless, her face was risible – eyes bright, lips parted in a smile that seemed to dance in the sunlight.

She was charging straight for Stan and, clambering up the wooden steps, dropped her bags with barely even a look. They fell to the ground, unsung, making clomping sounds as they dashed against the steps and landed heavily on the gravel below. Wendy didn't care. She just threw her arms around Stan with an exalted giggle. "Oh my god," she exclaimed. "You guys look so good!"

Kyle was next to be tackled and he nearly lost his balance as Wendy threw her whole weight into him with a firm embrace. "I've been looking forward to this for so long," Wendy sighed, holding Kyle out at a viewing distance, gazing into his eyes before pulling him back in for a second hug.

Kenny couldn't help but notice the bandages wrapped around both of Wendy's forearms; stretching from elbows to wrists. He shot a questioning glance at Stan, whose only response was a transitory flicker in his smile. Kenny cleared his throat in confirmation. Don't say anything.

The guttural affirmation was enough to pry Wendy's attention from the other guests and she did a double take in Kenny's direction. Her first glance was more of a dismissive acknowledgement to the presence of someone else being within her vicinity. But the second… Wendy lifted her wide eyes up in wonderment, mouth agape. "You –" she began, losing her words for her exhilaration. "I know you."

"I should hope so," Butters said through a grin, pushing Kenny forward and closer to Wendy. "I mean, it's only been ten years. Friends don't forget friends so easily." If Kenny had been more attentive to what Butters had been saying, he would have paused to assess the boy's downhearted tone.

Wendy gasped and covered her mouth with her hands and gave a fleeting, breathy laugh. "Kenny?" she cried, overjoyed. "It's been… years – oh my god!" She flung herself into his arms and nearly squeezed the very life out of him; she hugged oddly, using primarily her shoulders and biceps. But Kenny supposed that was out of fear for damaging her tender wrists. "Why haven't you called or written? I've been worried sick over you!"

Kenny remained dutifully speechless. He still wasn't used to such endearing people being so close to him. He even found it difficult to manage a return hug without feeling the pangs of apprehension to which he was so inclined.

When Wendy finally disengaged him (it felt like ages!) she turned to face the group with an unwavering grin. "And guess who I found milling around South Park like the rat he is?" she inquired rhetorically. "He was hitching a ride from a stranger to come here anyway, and I'm just such a nice person that I couldn't let him do that, so I picked him up for myself." She nudged Kenny with her hip. "I'm sure he will be just as excited to see you, too, Ken."

"Who is he?" came a gruff snarl, accompanied by the click of a lighter and an orgasmic drag from a cigarette. His voice was harboring disdain like some childhood memory that he couldn't bear to let go, and his eyes were sunken darkly – an unsightly side effect of insomnia. But most characteristically of all was his mellifluous French accent, causing undulations in his pronunciations that could either be taken as genuine or just plain annoying.

"Christophe, don't be that way," Wendy scolded him, placing her hands on her hips. "It's Kenny, you remember?"

"Like I give a shit," he spat, smoke hazing his profile for an instant as it wafted almost romantically into the air. "I've only met the dick hole once in my life, and I make a point to promptly forget things that are worthless."

_Finally_, Kenny thought, feeling a disturbing satisfaction settle in on his stomach. _Someone who finally understands me._

Christophe didn't bother wasting the energy to preamble even a meager hello to the others. Instead, he briskly strode toward Stan and Kyle, using his long legs to mount the three stairs onto the porch in one step. "Do you have my… effects?"

"Among other things," Kyle said, laying his hand onto Christophe's shoulder. The brunette lazily dropped his eyes down in an accusing glare before returning his gaze to Kyle. He blew out another stream of smoke, narrowly missing Kyle's face, and quietly slipped from his grasp.

"I'll be in my room."

"Uh, actually…" Stan corrected, stepping in front of him to block the door inside. "Kenny's currently occupying that space."

With a swift sneer, Christophe puffed out his chest in staunch defiance, not even attempting to hide his disapproval. "I thought we had an agreement," he said, sounding more betrayed than angry.

"We do," Kyle tried to explain. "It's just that –"

"It's fine," Kenny interrupted. The three men, each one seemingly towering above Kenny, turned to face him in mixed expressions. Kenny tore himself from Butters side and brushed past them all to the indoors. "It's fine," he assured a second time in a low whisper, and ascended the stairs to clear out his things.

Kenny closed the door to his former room behind him, another habit of his that was beginning to get on his nerves. He scanned the area with a melancholy realization that there was barely anything for him to move out. With slow, deliberate steps, Kenny circled the room, picking up his clothes from yesterday as he made his way towards the alarm clock. He reset the time as a considerate favor to Christophe before reaching under the bed and retrieving his duffle bag.

The door prattled open with a squeak of its hinges, Christophe sauntering inside. He was carrying a bag of his own that was somewhat similar to Kenny's, only gray and not dirty red. He let it slip from his arm and fall dejected to the floor. With a final drag, his lips leaked with smoke as he tapped out his cigarette in the frame of the doorway. The two of them felt at least obligated enough nod at each other as a greeting.

Christophe made his way to the other side of the bed as Kenny stood in the corner and stuffed his old clothes into his bag. The brunette, with his slumped and nonchalant posture, analyzed the living space, turning on a lamp positioned on the bed side table. "Clinophobia?" he mumbled, somewhat absently.

Kenny couldn't determine whether his repossesser was asking something or just rambling to himself. "Excuse me?" he ventured, keeping his voice low.

"Do you have Clinophobia?" Christophe inquired, more specifically and definitely more harshly. "The fear of beds." Kenny didn't answer; he wasn't sure what this interrogation was all about. Christophe rolled his eyes at Kenny's silence and ran his fingerless-gloved hand along the comforter. "I'm only asking because you've stayed here for – how long did Kyle tell me? – two days? And yet, by the looks of it, you haven't slept in this at all."

He glanced at Kenny, looking him dead in the eye with scrutiny. The blonde swallowed his thoughts, letting the silence be his answer. Christophe squinted his tired eyes and flared his nostrils. "I'm not asking the walls, here," he said forcefully. "I expect an answer. Do. You. Have. Clinophobia?"

Kenny chuckled spitefully under his breath and turned away to leave. "Genophobia," he proposed, hefting the duffle bag to his shoulder.

"Hey, Kenny," Christophe called to him, the foreign inflection in his voice making his name sound comical. Regardless, he granted his new friend a second to get whatever it was off his chest. Christophe stared him down, seemingly making sure that he had his undivided attention before bestowing upon him his mote of wisdom. "The little death," he started, waving his hand facetiously, "is nothing to be feared."

Kenny had to smirk at this. "There are only so many times you can experience death," he sighed to the clueless man, staring past his golden bangs to his feet. "…Before it finally kills you."

Back in the room, Christophe's silence was holding coda with an assiduous stance. The only goodbye Kenny received was the brief chorus of dog tags as they twinkled around Christophe's neck, staring longingly at the sheens that played so gracefully across their metal faces. "Soon," he whispered, so quietly that, at first, Kenny though he had imagined it. "I'll find you. Soon."

Nobody was at the counter when Kenny returned with his duffle bag. In fact, he hadn't seen anybody at all since he had gone upstairs. He deliberated with himself on whether or not he should wait for Kyle to return and give him the key to his new room. Though, the idea of it seemed pretty wasteful – he would just sleep on the floor again and not use the bed. There was even a thought that he should just pack up and run. But he couldn't endanger his friends like that. Who knows what Tavin would do?

Stan must have gone back to working in the garden again, for Kenny heard water running somewhere in the back; it was spraying with the pressurized force that only comes from a hose attached with a nozzle. He ignored it, coming to the conclusion that Stan wouldn't be able to get him a room key (it felt a little offensive to think this, but Kenny imagined that Kyle wore the pants in their relationship; and even if that weren't the case, Stan was so absent minded that he probably didn't even know where the keys were kept). Instead, he just leaned against the counter and waited for somebody with a little sense to show up.

After about five minutes of waiting, Kenny started to listen more intently to the ruckus going on in the back yard and started picking up on hints of laughter intermingled within the water spraying. It was unusually noisy out there for somebody to be _just_ watering the begonias. Finally, Kenny's curiosity couldn't handle the questions vying for his attention anymore, and he straightened himself out, walking through the kitchen and out towards the back deck.

The laughter grew louder with every passing step, and Kenny began to take notice that it was Kyle's. "S-stop!" he was gasping between guffaws, his bare feet audibly padding through the grass of the yard. Stan's voice would echo in a fit of giggles himself, and the picture of the scene that was taking place was beginning to be painted in Kenny's mind.

When he finally arrived on the deck, Kenny had to stifle a breath as his eyes grew wide. It wasn't just Stan and Kyle outside, but everybody was there. _Everybody_. Even Christophe was poking his head out of the window from the third story. Tweek and Bebe were closer to the door and the first to pick up their heads as Kenny walked through, but quickly returned their attentions to Stan and Kyle. Wendy, Craig, and Thomas were sitting on the edge of the deck, feet planted in the ground, each one of them gulping dryly. Tavin was on the far end of the deck, the furthest away, but even he was ogling at the sight. There was something strangely voyeuristic about it all.

That was especially since Stan and Kyle were the only ones doing anything. They were in the yard, running around like little kids – Stan with the hose, mercilessly spraying Kyle as he trotted up and down the yard. He was carrying the lid to a garbage can, trying to defend himself against Stan. But between his side splitting laughter and his willingness to have fun, the make-shift shield wasn't doing much to keep him dry.

Not that there was anything else to get wet. Dripping from head to toe, Kyle was soaked through to the bone, his hair falling about his face in a tangled mess of auburn… while Stan remained completely dry.

Kenny couldn't take his eyes off of Kyle. Nobody could. Because Kyle had the misfortune of wearing a very tight, very white t-shirt. And now that it was wet, it was completely transparent, displaying Kyle's pert nipples and semi-tone torso for the world to see. He was also wearing pants whose material was extremely thin, as well as a pair of Fruit of the Loom white briefs. You knew they were briefs because Kyle's pants were white, drenched, and also completely transparent. And you knew the briefs were white because – just like everything else white that he was wearing – they too… were completely see through. It left nothing to the imagination.

Craig, out of all of them, was having the toughest time hiding his erection.

At last, Stan stopped playing and beamed triumphantly from the border of his garden, watching lustfully as Kyle threw away the garbage lid and stood standing, virtually naked. It was only then that Kyle discovered they had an audience. He looked at Stan, up to the deck, over to Tavin, up to Christophe from his perch, back across the lecherous grins of his peers, and finally, returned his gaze to Stan.

His chest heaved beneath his wet shirt and Thomas squeaked out a very breathy "cock!" and didn't even say "excuse me" after it. Kyle's face flushed away before becoming florid with embarrassment. He fists shook as he clenched them harder and harder, glaring at Stan with all the intensity he could muster.

"You fucking dick!" he shouted as best he could, his voice breaking twice under the strain of the humiliation. "I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna fucking kill you!" Kyle's threat went unenforced as he tried to cover himself and began to sprint towards the back door. As everyone on the deck went rigid (interpret freely), Kyle skidded to a halt and rethought his plan of escape – running, while everything was… visible… was not the best idea.

"I'm gonna kill you," he yelled again, almost in tears, having no choice but to break through the crowd in order to get back inside the Bed and Breakfast. He didn't make it far, though, as his foot caught on the edge of their welcome mat and he tripped, falling to his hands and knees, right in front of Kenny. Shell shocked, the red head stayed put, his ass in the air, within groping distance of his friend. He trembled with mortification for another heart pounding moment before finally stumbling to his feet and racing inside.

"What made him think wearing all white was a good idea in the first place?" Wendy wondered out loud, not really asking anyone in particular.

Stan answered with a cruel snicker as he set the hose down. "Kyle may manage my money… but I pick out his clothes for him every morning." Kenny raised his eyebrows with a congratulatory nod. Perhaps Stan wasn't so absent minded after all. Maybe he just played dumb to keep everyone else off balance. One thing was for sure, his move today was not only ingenious, but flawless. That and:

"Kyle is going to be so pissed at you," Kenny gawked, hearing his distraught friend clatter up the stairs.

Stan shook his head and laid his arm on Kenny's shoulder. "He'll forgive me. He won't be mad later tonight after we have make-up sex."

"No, dude, I'm pretty sure he's –"

Stan slapped his palm over Kenny's mouth to keep him from finishing his sentence. "Believe me, Ken," he smirked. "He _won't_ be mad." His confidence was so sensational that all Kenny could conjure as a response was to raise his eyebrows.

"Isn't that a great philosophy?" Tavin prodded, coming towards them with a mischievous grin. "That love can solve all problems in the end if you just play your cards right, eh, Kenny?" Silence; Stan didn't get it and Kenny was too busy being hung up on his sardonic badgering to reply. "But say, Stan, I do have a serious question, if you don't mind, that is. What is the Winterbloom's policy on meals?"

"We have breakfast everyday, delivered to your room if you prefer, of course," Stan said cheerfully. "I mean, this is a _Bed and_ _Breakfast_ after all. We also prepare a dinner during the evenings in the dining room, but attendance is optional. I'm sorry, but we don't offer a lunch service, if that is what you're really implying. Our budget doesn't cover that. You'll have to go into town."

"That's quite alright," Tavin said, adjusting his glasses. "I have a few errands to run in town anyway – places to go, people to see – it won't hurt to grab a bite while I'm there. My good sir, what would you recommend in South Park? Should I settle for a conventional meal, or sample some of the city's rustic Colorado culture?"

"Who do you have to meet in town?" Kenny interjected, feeling his pulse quicken. Tavin looked at him passively and smiled.

"Let's just say that Boss took your little vanishing act _very_ personally…."

"Did I hear you're going into town, did I hear that right, you're going into town?" Tavin started with a small jump as Tweek appeared at his side, shamelessly invading the man's personal bubble. "Because if you are and you want to go someplace to eat – or get a cup of coffee – or eat – I guess it doesn't matter, they offer both, but if you're going to go into town and really want to have a great experience I would really like to recommend to you The Café Divine on the corner of 4267 Walnut Street; we have the best coffee in town and practically the United States and possibly the world as our business is on the brink of becoming global… uh… just as soon as I decide just where we're going to branch out into, it's a uh… a hard decision and way too much pressure!"

Tavin somehow channeled Bebe in some cosmic way, as his face remained plastered with a welcoming grin and he never once flinched. After Tweek was done, the brunette took the other's hand in a hearty shake. "Well, you've convinced me, sir! I think I'll do just that. Walnut Street, you say? You'll definitely have my business within the hour, friend."

"I did?" Tweek stuttered, blinking. "I mean… I did! Yes, of course I did! Jesus Christ, Bebe! Bebe, guess what I did? You'll never guess!" Tavin let go and walked proudly from the deck and back inside, leaving Tweek to dash after Bebe in an ecstatic frenzy.

"Yes, Mr. Tweak," Bebe conceded. "It's quite an amazing feat. You should be proud of yourself." She broke away and turned to face Stan. The man seemed to shy away; he loved being the center of attention, but only when there was applause to be had. All this management stuff wasn't particularly his forte, and it soon became clear that he was mentally floundering without Kyle. "Stan, what is it that you'll be having for dinner today?"

"Uh, hamburgers I think, but –"

"Hamburgers?!" Craig exclaimed, jumping up from his seated position. "Are you serious? Score, dude! My favorite! Hey… hey, can Thomas and I make them? Like on a grill and all that shit? We'll pop a few beers and have make a party out of it, what do you say?"

"P-party?" Stan warbled, thinking it over. "I'm not sure if Kyle would… I mean, what exactly do you mean by party? And besides we haven't even bought the ingredients yet…."

"Aw, shit!" Thomas spat, covering his mouth. "Excuse me. Stan, if it you're worried about us handling your grill and cooking materials, then it's perfectly alright. I can – fuck! Ass fuck! – excuse me. I can handle all that stuff, no problem. I work as a chef in a local – bitch! – a local restaurant back in L.A. I'll make sure Craig behaves."

"Dude, you really work as a chef?"

"Yeah," Thomas admitted, folding his hands behind his back nervously. "It's the only place I can work that I can get off having a mouth like mine. Sh-shit! Excuse me."

"Yeah, but," Stan started, hesitantly. "You're our paying guests and we… well, Kyle always says…." He desperately looked up at one of the third story windows, the one with floral curtains, and Kenny could only assume that _that_ was their own personal room. However, Stan's silent pleas for help went unanswered.

"Oh yeah, well I own a house in L.A. and Dallas as well as one here in Colorado," Tweek shouted from the far end of the deck, not even sorry that he was brazenly eavesdropping. "And I got all that money to buy those houses by owning a successful chain of coffee places that are about to go global!" The unspoken "beat that!" went without saying.

The deck erupted into screams as everybody threw their hands over their heads and ducked to the floor. Tweek jumped as a result and started screaming as well. He backed into the railing of the deck, hectically searching the area for whatever it was that was causing everyone else to shout. "Why is he holding a gun?!" Kenny yelled over the chaos, pointing at Tweek's armed hand.

Bebe turned around and grappled Tweek's wrist, prying the loaded Taurus Millennium away from him with a roll of her eyes. "It's mine," she stated, trying to calm everyone down. "It's my gun. I just asked him to hold it while I looked in my purse for a pen."

"Okay, number one:" Stan began, holding up a finger for emphasis. "Why would you ever in your life think it was a good idea to give Tweek a gun, even if it was just for a second? And two: why do you even have a gun in your purse to begin with?"

Bebe looked at them all, her face blank with a serious visage. "I work for _Mr. Tweak_," she explained with a shrug. The group let out a sigh of relief, nodding to each other in understanding. That was the only explanation she needed to give. Who knew what could happen when you were Tweek's underling.

"So, dude," Craig gawked, after they all had gotten up from the ground. "Have you ever, like… killed anybody?"

"No," Bebe answered quickly, stuffing the pistol back into her purse. She glanced around at everybody, only the slightest hint of nervousness manifesting itself as a bead of sweat on her brow. "…Technically."

"Technically?" Thomas ejected. "Shit! Fuck!"

Wendy bolted to her feet, standing between Bebe and her accusers. "My client's movements were not premeditated at all. It was purely an accident – she simply confused her acceleration pedal for her brake when she ran that poor man over."

"Yeah!" Tweek added, his voice shrill and none too convincing. Then, under his breath, "He doesn't call me a fucking cocaine addict anymore, now does he?"

"That was your defense?" Stan scoffed, completely composing himself from what he was before. "I read about that case. The man who Bebe ran over was a competitor for Tweek's budding company that just so happened to be on bad terms with him. And the best you could come up with was 'my foot slipped?'"

"It happens in cases all the time!" Wendy argued back, taking a threatening step forward. Stan held his ground.

"Yeah, in which the perpetrator is in the age group of 50 to 60 years. You can't back up an affidavit with blatant demur."

"It was a high stress situation in which Bebe lost her head and was unable to control her reaction time!"

"Witnesses claimed she had a good ten seconds to apply her brake after she initially accelerated, which would have at least decreased her momentum, increased the duration of impact, and lessened the force applied to a level that was not fatal. That is… if she didn't have the intention to kill."

Wendy's face grew red and she gritted her jaw furiously. "Well, that litigation is six years old now, and Bebe paid what she owed. Regardless of whatever evidence you may be proposing, the fact still stands that I won!"

"Yeah, by the skin of your teeth and a four day jury delegation."

"Okay, Stan!" Wendy shrieked, throwing her hands into the air, her eyes growing red with tears. "So you graduated Valedictorian from our class, bravo, congratulations! Are you ever going to let that down? You're always just going to keep that in your back pocket and bring it out to rub in my face whenever you want, huh? Well guess what, Stan? Guess who has a job as a lawyer, and guess who works at a fucking Bed and Breakfast?!"

She ran her bandaged wrist against her cheek to catch any renegade tears and stormed from the deck. When she was gone, Kenny whistled in awe. "Man," he said, wryly. "You're just pissing everyone off today."

Stan faced him, mouth ajar, eyes wide, and with that ambivalent expression… shrugged.

"So…" Bebe drawled, bringing attention back to her. "Hamburgers for dinner then? Well, Mr. Tweak, looks like you'll be having another salad."

"No," Tweek twitched, and Bebe literally stopped dead in her tracks, looking dumbfounded.

"But, Mr. Tweak," she said in disbelief. "You don't eat red meat."

"I want to try it," he demanded, his eyes set hotly upon Craig. He took a moment to lick his dry lips. "It's… it's my new favorite."

Bebe let out a very tired sounding breath and retrieved her purse again. Her high heels clicked against the wood of the deck as she headed back towards the entrance of the house. Kenny waved at her, trying to flag her down. "Are you okay?" he asked. He figured it would be the right thing to say, seeing as nobody was paying any attention to her. And he knew exactly what they felt like.

"Yes, I'm fine," Bebe responded, rubbing her temples with her fingers. "There goes Mr. Tweak's vegan streak. Salads were so much easier to make, but now I'm going to have to start actually _cooking_ things for him."

She tried to continue on her way, but Kenny took her gently by the shoulder. "Why do you let him boss you around like that?" he mumbled, furrowing his eyebrows in concern. Bebe looked him in the eye, but only briefly, before pulling away with a sigh.

"Because he _is_ my boss," she said, walking inside.

"Okay, okay!" Stan raised his voice. He was holding up his hands in defeat and backing away from Craig. "The two of you can make the burgers, but the fact still stands that I haven't gotten to buying any of the ingredients yet, and I still have to do damage control with Wendy and… and with Kyle. So, in for a penny in for pound. Go buy the ground beef and shit while you're at it."

"What?" Craig sneered, turning his nose up. "I didn't sign up for that!"

"I'll go into town." Butters came from the gate in the garden, letting it swing closed behind him with a rickety bang.

"Really?" Stan implored, utterly thankful. "You'd do that?"

Butters smiled and brushed his hand through his hair. "Hey, that's what you've been paying me to do, right? Run errands? And it's not like I have anything better to do, you know?"

Kenny stared at him as he perched himself against the outside railing of the deck, placing his head in his arms. "Where'd you come from?" he asked.

"Well," Butters said, shortly. "When a man and a woman love each other very much, they decide to ruin their lives by having a child…." He trailed off, feeling Kenny's scorching leer upon him. He cocked his head to one side with an innocent smirk. "Okay, I've been watching from the fence. Kyle's pretty easy on the eyes, no?"

"Enough!" Stan growled, growing weary of his joke – the initial prank was hilarious, but the after effects so far have been undesirable. "Butters, you go into town and buy the materials, I have a list already made. When he's back, at 4:30, Craig and Thomas, you will start making dinner and have it ready by 5:00. I'll go manage the cash register until Kyle's done being pissy, and Wendy will just have to wait for an apology until I'm done being busy." He threw his fist up at the floral curtains. "Ha! Take that! I can handle things on my own every once in a while!"

"You know, Kenny," Butters hinted, nudging the other blonde with his elbow. "That offer from yesterday still stands. My bike can fit two, if you wanna tag along."

With a half hearted smile, Kenny averted his gaze to the floor. "I… I can't."

"Oh," Butters nodded, sadly. "I understand. Just thought it would be nice to spend time with you."

"Just fuck him already," Craig groaned, linking arms with Thomas and striding back inside the house. "You both know you want to."

"Okay, well," Butters said, waving him off (Craig returned the gesture with his middle finger). "I won't be leaving right away. I still have a few hours. You can rethink your decision and come back to me with the correct answer next time." He patted Kenny on the shoulder before disappearing inside.

Back in the Bed and Breakfast, Kenny walked in on Stan at the front counter. He was talking to another customer that had just arrived, and if his memory didn't fail him, that customer was none other than Clyde Donovan. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, nasally voice… Clyde Donovan.

"You been waiting here long?" Stan was asking, apologetically.

"Long enough to see Kyle run upstairs dripping and practically naked," Clyde answered, tactlessly. "I didn't need to see that, but Craig did tell me that you guys can get wild. Though, I guess it's more fun for people like you as opposed to people like me."

"Speaking of," Stan commented, either trying to make small talk, or trying to distract Clyde long enough for him to figure out how to use the register. "How's the wife and kids? They doing alright?"

Clyde swallowed and looked away. "Yeah," he answered hesitantly. "From what I've seen of them."

"From what you've seen of them?" Stan echoed, perfunctory. He finally solved the riddle of the register and handed Clyde his key to the room he would be staying in. Clyde took it with an apathetic visage.

"I've been on a road trip. Haven't seen much of them for a while."

"Okay, well," Stan said. "I hope you enjoy your stay and get back to your family soon!"

Clyde's face was deadpan, getting lost in the cadence of a memory growing far too distant for his liking. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to open his mouth. After a long while, he at last picked up his bags and started for the stairs, glancing over his shoulder. "Me too."

On his way down, Clyde and Christophe passed one another, giving themselves a nod of acknowledgment as they parted ways. For a fleeting instant, Kenny could have sworn the two of them looked exactly the same, right down to their melancholy expressions. Christophe stomped into the vestibule, a cigarette in one hand, his other playing absently with his dog tags. He didn't stop to chat, only kept on his way.

"I'm going into town," he tossed at Stan, who waved goodbye with a silent twitch of his hand. Christophe said nothing to Kenny.

"Don't mind him," Stan consoled as soon as the Frenchman was out of earshot. He toyed with the register for a bit, an odd smile thin across his lips – it wasn't one of happiness, but more complaisant restraint. "Christophe…" he tried to explain, visibly distressed by the limited number of explanations he could use. "Christophe is a man on a mission. He doesn't really have the time, or the energy, for other people right now."

Kenny scratched his head, using that as an excuse to avert his gaze. "I don't blame him," he said. "We all have missions, in one way or another."

Towards the back of the house, a door squeaked open, and the sound of footsteps coming up from the basement beat through the air. Stan inexplicably found himself to be busy again, his hands lighting over papers that he never actually did anything with; he would just pick them up and set them down elsewhere. It may have been ten years, but that nervous habit still hadn't been broken, and Kenny could see right passed Stan's disarming grin as he distracted himself.

Tavin appeared around the corner and gave out a fake gasp of surprise. "Oh my," he breathed, removing his glasses and wiping them down with his shirt. "I always seem to be interrupting the two of you."

"What were you doing in the basement?" Stan shot hurriedly. Tavin was slightly taken aback by his hostile tone, raising his eyebrows at the accusation.

"My coat was dirty from yesterday," the brunette put forward, guarding his words with reflection. "I heard there was a laundry machine downstairs, so I thought I'd wash it."

"I do the laundry."

Tavin smirked dismissively and took a step forward. "Thank you for telling me, but there's a certain way I prefer my clothes to be washed –"

"You could have told me," Stan yapped. "I could have done it. I do the laundry. Either me or Kyle, nobody else." Now, even Kenny was looking at Stan with suspicion. Beneath their stares, Stan withdrew into himself, returning to organizing the papers on the counter for a few seconds, his mind searching for a way to salvage the situation. "Y-you know," he continued in a forced laugh. "You're our customers. You're supposed to relax."

Neither Tavin nor Kenny was convinced.

Stan looked between the two of them a few times with uneasy eyes, before finally mumbling, "I need to go get Kyle." As he stumbled from behind the counter and up the stairs, Tavin grabbed Kenny's upper arm and pulled him aside into the dining room, just in front of the cellar door.

"What's going on?" Kenny hissed through his teeth. "I thought you said you were going into town."

"I will, I will," Tavin said, speaking as one would to a child. He shoved him along playfully towards the top of the steps. "I just want to show you something first."

The basement was pitch dark, all except for the light from the upstairs and a small green mote of a bulb on the washing machine in the corner. The large metal box hummed and vibrated loudly, sounding like it was on its last breath – Kyle probably had been too cheap to buy a new one. Kenny trained his eyes onto that green light, probing his right hand in front of him in the dark while skimming his left hand along the railing so as to not lose his balance and fall. Tavin confidently trailed behind him, standing at the foot of the steps even as Kenny ventured out further into the blackness.

"What's this all about?" Kenny asked, stupidly, still groping the air with his hands to catch any obstructions. He was answered with a burst of light as Tavin clicked on the over head light. It flickered weakly at first before gaining strength and casting its artificial glow on the cellar.

Kenny jumped in terror, spinning on his heels to take in the whole sight as his breathing became labored. The wooden staircase; the cement blocks that made up the walls; the cold, hard concrete beneath his feet; it was all frighteningly reminiscent of the basement back in the brothels of New York. The air was heavy with a moldy undertone, but Kenny's memory still triggered his brain into thinking he smelled blood. He glared at Tavin, wide eyed and startled. This is what he wanted to show him. He wanted him to see the similarities and be reminded of where he belonged.

Back in the far wall, a subtle difference caught Kenny's attention. He addled hid way toward it, trying to focus his attention away to anything that wasn't his past. He noticed that the wall here was two different shades of gray. No… not two different colors… a few of the bricks, stretching from the floor all the way to the ceiling, spanning a little less than six feet, were newer than the rest of the blocks. It was a miniscule variation, but just noticeable enough to call attention to itself.

However, there wasn't any more time to investigate, as Kenny felt a presence at his back. Tavin wrapped his arm around Kenny's chest and held him close, reaching down with his other hand to begin undoing his jeans. Before he could even react fully, Tavin already had his onerous hand down into the confines of Kenny's pants, setting his fingers around him.

Kenny lurched away with a cry, backing against the wall, sprawling his hands out in shock. Tavin gave a deprecating shake of his head and loomed even higher above Kenny. "You said one week," the blonde choked, feeling defenseless.

"Oh, come on, Ken," Tavin whispered, seductive, empowered. "I have needs too, you know. I promise I won't make it bad. I'll even be gentle this time." He caressed Kenny's trembling face with the back of his hand, feeling the feverish heat enflamed by his touch. Kenny retreated even further into himself and cowered away.

"Stop," he pleaded, his heart racing.

"I swear you'll enjoy it."

"I said stop!"

In a ferocious surge of clout, Kenny exploded outward, practically hurling Tavin away from his and off of his feet. The brunette staggered backwards, a drop of blood tracing down from the corner of his mouth – he had bitten his tongue in the skirmish.

Tavin reacted immediately. He seized Kenny by his neck and slammed the hapless victim into the wall, the concrete bricks shuddering under the force of impact. "Now, you listen here, fucker!" he shouted, shaking Kenny furiously and bruising his trachea. "I've just about had it with you and your bitchy attitude! I'm this close – _this_ close! – to dragging you kicking and screaming back to Boss, right now! All I wanted was a little relief from my stress! It isn't like you aren't used to it!"

Kenny offered no response but for the hushed cries of a wounded animal. His back stung with a sharp pain and he was coughing beneath Tavin's unyielding grip. "If you want to be that way," Tavin grumbled menacingly, pulling Kenny away from the wall and lifting him by his throat into the air. "Then be that way!"

With a heaving grunt, Tavin launched Kenny into the wall. The concrete bricks slid out from underneath themselves and gave way as Kenny's feeble body collided with them. All of the wind was knocked from his lungs and his vision went blurry even as Tavin trudged back up the stairs. In a crumpled ball, a mere shell of what he was, Kenny laid on the floor, gasping for breath.

His mind was an angry fog of malicious retribution. He was so blinded by maniacal rage that he barely even registered what was behind the fallen wall. He saw the fabric. He smelled the odor. Kenny couldn't process the sight and resorted to running from the basement as fast as his legs could carry him.

Butters was out in the parking lot. He cheerfully went about his business, readying his motorcycle for his ride into town, the list of materials Stan had written sitting snuggly in his jacket pocket. He put on his helmet, pulled down the visor and revved the engine a few times. That was what he loved most. That was the sound of the road. The sound of freedom. He was just about to peel out from gravel and onto the asphalt when he felt an extra weight sit itself behind him.

Even as Kenny's arms wrapped around him, Butters felt his heart leap. Kenny carelessly dug his face into Butters' shoulder, blinking away the wetness from his eyes and folding his hands securely to the other's torso. "Drive," Kenny commanded, his voice sounding small and far away.

Butters tried his hardest to contain his excitement. "You… I don't have an extra helmet."

"Drive."

That was all he coaxing he needed. With a few more revs of the bike, Butters and Kenny tore from the parking lot in a cloud of dust, heading straight into South Park.

* * *

"_Let's get right down to business," Tavin started, entering the room with Butch close behind. He took his position at the front of the group of boys where a chalk board was stationed. Numbers were etched onto the black surface with a powdery white beneath the names of all thirteen men. _

_Most of the attendants were standing, but others, like Dante and Robert, who were still relatively green-horns, had to sit. They were already weak in the knees, and seeing their small numbers up on the board, they were beginning to lose hope. Kenny, too was sitting cross-legged, but only because he had just come from a job and was feeling woozy still. The one's who were standing, the experienced employees, had already lost all of their hope. Now all they saw were numbers. White numbers and endless tunnels that never seemed to have a light at the end of them._

_They were all different heights and complexions with different types of hair length and color. But one thing they all shared in common was their thin bodies and the sweat that seeped from their every pore (customer approval claimed that they preferred it when their flesh was hot, so Boss made sure they stayed hot). Some were wearing torn shirts, and some wore nothing at all. Though, none of them were clothed from the waist down._

"_Numbers don't lie, people," Tavin was stating excitedly. He picked up a piece of chalk and gestured toward the name 'Scott' that was scribed atop the moist slate. "Scott, my friend, it seems that you're still in the lead with 4,893 points. Kenny…" The blonde jerked at the sound of his name, lifting his expectant eyes up to Tavin who stared back with a ribald grin. "You are second with 4,322 points."_

_Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. What was the point? They were all essentially rivals struggling for the same end. Besides, none of them had the energy to do more than breathe and keep standing. Tavin scanned the faces of the dejected youth until he finally spotted Scott within the crowd._

"_Scott," he called. "Would you come to the front, please?" Scott didn't move and Kenny twisted his neck to one side to see him, panting in the steam of the over heated room. Tavin tapped his foot impatiently, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring over his glasses. "Scott! Scott! For the love of god! Butch… go bring Scott here."_

_The large man broke away and waded through the huddled gathering like a man among children, standing tall and foreboding with his bulging muscles and bald head. He took Scott by the collar, nearly ripping apart the moth-eaten threads, and hefted him center stage. From there, Tavin gave him a disapproving once over._

_Scott was sleek with sweat, more so than the other boys, and his eyes were dull and hazy. He wobbled on his feet, barely able to keep his balance, and more than once he had to have Butch force him upright after falling against him. He was shivering uncontrollably; so much so that his very frame quaked and trembled with bone jarring intensity. _

"_Scott," Tavin began again, peering at him with a click of his tongue. "You're not sick, are you?"_

_The boy opened his mouth and dry heaved a few times before catching his breath. "N-no," he slurred, none too convincingly. "I… I'm going through with… withdrawal, sir."_

"_We can't have you behaving like this," Tavin chastised. "It's bad for business." He took an eraser into his hand and waved it a few times in the air, coercing Scott to speak. The boy could not. "Well? What is it that you need?"_

"_I'm f-f-fine, sir. Please, don't… don't…."_

"_I said," Tavin growled, brandishing the eraser almost as if it were a weapon. "What is it that you need?"_

_Scott swallowed and went into spasms again. His legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the floor. His back convulsed and his neck snapped into place as his body locked itself rigid. With a gut wrenching squelch, he vomited all over the ground. Spitting the acrid bile from his mouth, he begged at the top of his lungs, "Oxycotton!"_

"_Butch," Tavin said, pointing toward the door. "OxyContin, please. Third shelf to the right." Butch grunted wordlessly and left the room. _

_Tavin checked his shoes for any stray sick that may have splattered towards him before kneeling down and helping Scott to his feet. "It's alright, son," he cooed, grappling with the teenage train wreck, attempting to steady him. "We'll get you your fix, and you'll be back on your feet in no time. You… do know, however, that OxyContin costs 2,000 points to purchase?"_

_Scott gagged._

"_Alright then," Tavin shrugged. With a deft stroke of his eraser, he smeared away the 4,893 and replaced it with 2,893. Butch returned swiftly, looking a little humorous waddling in his typically wide gait. He held in his palm four white pills, two of which he stuffed down Scotts throat and two he placed into the teen's quivering fingers. "There you go," Tavin sang with a clap of his hands. "Now, you're scheduled for an appointment in five minutes. Please try to get a hold of yourself before then. You'll be in room seven, as always, Scott."_

_The boy swaggered away, obediently heading for the door. His shoulder slammed into the frame as he lost his stability, and he idled there to wipe the remnant vomit from his lips onto his forearm. He stared at his palm and two treasure capsules there. With barely a moment of debate, Scott downed the last two pills he should have saved for later and tripped into the hallway. Panting and sickly, he stumbled his way towards room seven._

"_Kenny," Tavin called again, leaning over the blonde haired man with affection. "You know what this means? You're first now. Congratulations. You're the best."_

The best?_ Kenny thought, his head reeling. He smiled wide with accomplishment and wheezed out a thrilled laugh. He had beaten Scott. He was the best! Out of all the boys there, everyone loved him the most! They all loved _him_! This was the most exciting day of his life! The best! The best!_

"_I knew you could do it," Tavin whispered, lovingly. He extended his hand toward Kenny, who nodded his cheek into the embrace eagerly like an attention starved kitten. Tavin smirked, letting Kenny take his hand and rub it. He stroked his golden hair like a trained pet, and Kenny relished the endearing touch of his fingers. "You have always been my favorite," Tavin said, pulling away his hand. Kenny whimpered in almost genuine orgasm._

_That touch was more passionate than making love. More sought after than sex. For sex loses its appeal when it is your job. When it is your life._

* * *

There were still three and a half hours before Butters and Kenny had to be back at Winterbloom with the groceries for Craig and Thomas. They both figured that they could risk spending a little more time catching up with each other.

Of classy places to spend an afternoon, South Park's local Get Go was not high on Kenny's list – but who could turn down a good slushy? And besides, Butters seemed excited enough for both of them, so he supposed he could grin and bear it.

The slushy machine whirred as Butters lost himself in the spinning axils of plastic that churned the ice and colors and artificial flavors all together. Kenny watched as Butters fumbled with his medium sized cup and licked his lips in anticipation. He placed his cup down beneath the cherry flavored ice, filled the cup up half way, and then slid it over to the blueberry side and topped the container off the rest of the way. He drifted backwards, gawking at the mixture as the two colors slowly melted into one another, creating a tie-dye solution.

Kenny smiled a bemused grin before he moved in and settled for just cherry. "I can't imagine that would taste very good," he commented, retrieving a straw from one of the holders and making his way towards the counter to purchase.

Butters took a sip, the melding colors starting to form a pale brown. He winced away and stuck out his tongue in disgust. "It doesn't…."

"Then why would you do that?" Kenny laughed sincerely. Butters reached into his pocket and took out a wad of bills, ciphering out a few ones to pay for the slushies. He leaned himself against the front counter, twirling his cup as if it were an expensive wine.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he said in mock grandeur.

"Three dollars and seventy-nine cents, please," the Get Go employee droned. His eyes mooned over almost as if he would fall asleep right then and there. Butters gave him four dollars in cash before returning his attention to Kenny.

"So… you come here often?"

Kenny snickered at the stupid question, playing along. "It's not as esteemed as a café in France," he started, motioning towards Butters. "But they always have my favorite beverage."

"Oh, France!" Butters breathed in delectation. He arched his spine, stretching himself and sighing dreamily. "I would love to see Paris some day."

Kenny let a half hearted chuckle escape his lips – Butters was too much sometimes. His laugh, however, slowly died off as he realized that Butters was being completely serious, looking at him with those sky blue eyes that were full of masked hurt. "You…" Kenny started, the words escaping him for their perceived silliness. "You've already been to Paris."

A look of sudden realization washed itself over Butters face as he recoiled in understanding. For an instant, he looked confused, gathering up his 21 cents in change from the cash register. His visage was quickly replaced with a joviant smile and he laughed heartily. "Well, duh!" he said. "I meant with you, stupid!"

"Ha!" Kenny scoffed, sucking more of the red drink through his straw. "Don't hold your breath."

"Would you hold it for me?"

Kenny opened his mouth to respond, but his lips were enveloped with Butters' as the smaller man lifted himself up onto his toes, locking them into a kiss. He breathed sharply through his nostrils, the unsuspected act of compassion taking him totally off guard. He didn't kiss back. He couldn't. It was all too sudden.

When Butters finally pulled away (it seemed like hours), Kenny was breathless and wide eyed. It was the twinkling chime of the front door's bell that broke him from his trance, and he raced to catch up with Butters, already out on the sidewalk.

Butters was staring into his hand, making the coins jump in his palm like a bored toddler. All at once, he tossed the change into the air and purposely moved his hand away so that all of the silver shimmered to the ground, scattering across the pavement. Kenny didn't ask why.

"You know," the other began, his slushy now completely brown. "I don't really want this anymore." He squinted his eyes against the sunlight and scanned the area. About twenty feet away was The Café Divine, Tweek's own chain of business. But that's not what Butters was leering at. Kenny followed his line of vision to a man in a police officer's uniform, drinking daintily from a china tea cup. "Is that Officer Barbrady?" Butters asked, a malignant tone coating his voice.

"I think so," Kenny answered, even though Butters had already begun tromping towards the man. "I didn't know he was still serving."

"Officer Barbrady?" Butters called from behind the man.

"Yes?"

Splash!

Kenny choked on a gasp as Butters dumped the shit-colored concoction all over the man with a malevolent smirk. As soon as he did it, he pivoted sharply and waved his arms at Kenny. "Hey, you asshole!" Barbrady shouted, standing up and dripping with slushy.

"Go, go, go!" Butters guffawed, pointing to the bike parked right next to the door. Kenny hesitated, shocked from what his friend had just done, but he complied nonetheless. Butters leaped over the seat and started the engine, roaring out of the Get Go and onto the street, going ten miles an hour over the speed limit.

"I don't think he's actually following us!" Kenny shouted over the wind as the road vanished beneath their tires, South Park whizzing by in a blur. Butters' only response was an exhilarated laugh as he put the peddle to the medal, continuing to increase his speed. The ribbon of the road snaked its way along until eventually the buildings became darker and less new. They were headed out of the town proper straight into the part of the city.

Eventually Butters slowed to a stop, unable to catch his breath from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Kenny wanted to hit him across the head… but in all honesty, he had never had such a rush before. He almost sorta wished the cops had been chasing them. But, if Barbrady was still Barbrady, the only thing he did was go home to get a change of clothes.

"Hey, look," Butters murmured, throwing out the kickstand and getting off his motorcycle. "Isn't that the church?"

Kenny looked to see a tall skeleton of a building. It had been stripped of its outer layers, bare beams and supports just barely staying up. Milky plastic coated the outside at some places, but most of it just flapped freely in the wind. Looking at it – having no prior knowledge of the town – you wouldn't have been able to tell it was a church except for the lone steeple, jagging out like a rotted tooth among bones.

Off to one side, not far from the street, bulldozers sat lifeless. "They're tearing it down," Kenny gawked, connecting the pieces together.

Butters shrugged, kicking a few rocks at his feet. "Things change," he stated, matter-of-factly. The two blondes entered the old church, their footfalls echoing cheerlessly across the brittle plywood that replaced the once stone foundation. The shell was musty with the scent of sawdust.

"Speaking of which," Kenny groaned, taking a seat on a pile of discarded pews. "You've certainly changed since the last time I saw you. Cute, little Butters… traveling the world to find his purpose! That would make a good fairytale."

The other boy's face lit up with coquettish fervor. "You want to see pictures?" Before Kenny could say yes, Butters was back out at his bike, scrounging around in a bag until he pulled out two binders with three inch wide spines. He jogged back in, still beaming brightly, and set down the photo books, in front of Kenny's lap on what used to be an altar, opening the first one to the front page.

Butters paced back and forth as Kenny perused the photographs, smiling warmly at all the exotic places. He wasn't lying when he said he had been to France; there Butter's was, in front of the Eiffel Tower with… some man. A man about their age. They had their arms wrapped around each other. Becoming suspicious, Kenny pulled the picture out and flipped it over. Written on the back in black sharpie was: "Anton – 23 years old – Taken November 7th – Great kisser; poor sex – Gave you book on graffiti art for Christmas."

"Who is this?" Kenny asked, holding the picture up for Butters to see. He tried his hardest to keep the anger from creeping into his voice, but failed. The other boy stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape as he stared at the picture, blankly.

"A…" he started, stumbling over his alibi. "A roommate. Couldn't afford a hotel back then, so I bummed around with… him for a few… months."

Kenny sifted through the pages, coming across a title headed "Tokyo, Japan." The first picture there was of Butters and another man, only this time, Butters was kissing him on the cheek. Kenny pointed to that one beneath the laminated sheen and growled. "And who's this?"

Butters looked away. "A roommate."

"And this guy?"

"Just a roommate."

"And these two men from London? Just roommates?"

"What do you want from me?" Butters cried, whirling around and throwing his arms out to his side. "What's with the sudden interrogation? Can't you just look at the god damn pictures?"

Kenny held up the picture of Anton that was still in his hand. "Who is this?"

"I already told you, a –"

"I don't want to know," Kenny shouted, shaking the photograph, "if he was a _roommate_ or not! I want to know what his name was."

Butters staggered backwards, shocked that Kenny was actually yelling at him. He couldn't form words under the pressure – only shaking his head.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know."

"And this man?" Kenny said, pointing to another picture. "What's his name?"

"I… I don't know."

Kenny shot up from his seat and kicked the pew with all of his might. The wood splintered and the booth fell backwards with a noisy clatter. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, creasing the photo his hand with a stale crinkle. He had no idea how else to express his rage. "Butters," he hissed slowly, forcing himself to look the man in the eye. "You mean to tell me… that you slept with all of these people…"

Kenny's fury melted away beneath his forming tears, and his voice cracked. "You slept with these men and you… you don't even remember any of their names?"

"I don't know!" Butters clasped his hands over his ears and turned away.

"I thought you were different!" Kenny screamed, throwing down the picture. "But you're just the same as all the others! You'll feed off of my libido until you've had your fill and then you'll just skip town, off on your next big adventure with your newest, hapless boy toy! Then when you're tired of him, you'll snap a picture, and run away again, huh?! What are we, just a collection of pretty faces for your scrap book?!"

"I don't know!"

"They all just leave in end," Kenny sputtered, losing his breath. "They come and they go and come and go, but they always leave when the night is over. And you're left alone on your stained bed with your stained body, hating to see them go but wishing them good riddance! So many times they rip your heart apart you begin doubting whether you had one at all!"

"That's not me!" Butters pleaded, becoming hysterical. "I have problems."

"What kind of problems could you have that could _ever_ justify this?"

Butters stayed silent. He sobbed with hot tears and tried to speak. "I can't help it. I have Huntingdon's Disease."

Kenny instantly fell away, his visage wiped clean of expression. Butters stared at his feet, composing himself and stopping the flow of his tears with a sniff. When he looked up again, he tried to explain. "It's a disorder… like dementia. It's heredity, it… it runs in my family. I was diagnosed years ago, back in the first semester of my second year of college. After that, I… I didn't know what to do so I… I just ran."

The boy sat down in another pew, derided and hopeless. He cradled his head in his hands. "I lose my memory, Kenny," he continued, merciless tears streaking down his cheeks. "Sometimes it's not so bad. Sometimes I forget things I didn't _want_ to remember. But it's getting worse. I'm losing my memory faster than before. I started taking pictures… to help remind me where I've been. What I've done. When we met on the road, I didn't tell you it was me… not because I thought it would be awkward. But because I didn't recognize you."

Butters wept and picked up the photo albums into his arms, letting his sadness wet them with quiet drips. "The pictures jog my memory sometimes. But not always." He opened one of the binders and rifled through the pages, faster and faster, desperately searching for something – _anything_ – that looked familiar to him. "I've been all over the world," he cried through the gasps. "And I can't even remember being to _any_ of these places!"

He shouted at the top of his lungs, throwing the albums to the ground, kicking up dust and debris into the air. With a final gasp, Butters' knees buckled beneath him and he collapsed into the pew.

Kenny, bewildered and ashamed, hovered over him. He reached out his hand, but pulled it back. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. He wanted to sit down next to him and… do something. But he couldn't think of anything to do. Nothing.

Just how do you show someone you care?

How do you comfort a person without the fallback of sex?

* * *

"You just don't get it!" Tweek was shouting as Kenny and Butters returned to the Winterbloom Bed and Breakfast. It had been a difficult task keeping the plastic bags of groceries in place on a motorcycle, but somehow they had managed. It was also hard to hold onto each other and not instantly break down into desolated sobs laden with lament. But again, somehow, they managed.

"What's not to get?" Kyle asked, keeping his voice calm. He had changed his clothes from before, working the Inn's ledger at the counter with lassitude. Stan was in the hallway, sweeping up dust mites with an embittered but relieved face – he was either avoiding Kyle, or they had already made up and that morning's debacle was now just a thing of the past. Tweek, however, could not keep still, wringing his hands and darting his eyes to and fro.

Tweek's attention was first caught by Craig and Thomas as they entered through the kitchen. They greeted everybody in their own way (a middle finger and a bitten off curse word) before taking the bags from Butters and Kenny and inspecting the foodstuffs therein. It was only then that Tweek realized the other two blondes were there. He sort of twitched in annoyance and leaned in closer to Kyle, trying to keep his voice to a whisper.

"Please," he begged, unusually cool and collected. "I'll pay you double what I offered last year. Just sign the papers and sell the Winterbloom to me."

"Money isn't the issue, Tweek," Kyle stated loudly, unafraid of being overheard. "Stan and I won't sell you this place. It's ours."

"You'll still be managers! I'll make you managers! You can still run the whole place just the way you've always done, the only difference will be becoming a branch of my company, and you'll even be paid a steady salary on top of what you'll get for the land, so what the fuck is wrong with this deal? Jesus Christ!"

Kyle smiled glibly, shaking his head. "That's not the point," he mumbled, gazing into nothingness as he reminisced. "This place isn't just our business. It's our life. It's who we are. It's the closest thing we have to a child and our one and only refuge from the world. Well… among other things."

Wendy and Clyde stepped through the door from the deck and headed into the dining room. Kenny couldn't help but hear their conversation.

"Why do you keep running from me?" Clyde mumbled, reaching out touch Wendy. The black haired girl jerked away with an angry glower.

"I have a restraining order, you know. I'd ask you to please respect it."

"I just wanted to see you again," Clyde continued, following Wendy into the vestibule with everyone else. He caught up with her and clutched her arm, staring at the bandages around her wrists with empathy. "What did you do to yourself?"

Wendy wrenched away, furious. "Can't you just leave me alone? Don't you have other women you could be bothering right now? What would your wife think? Wasn't one divorce enough for you?"

Clyde went limp and furrowed his brow. "Is one enough for _you_?"

Wendy breathed in a sharp gasp. She swiped her hand towards Clyde, slapping him hard across the cheek. As he stood, stunned from the seemingly unprovoked act of aggression, Wendy bolted for the stairs. "You don't know anything about me!" she cried, holding onto the railing as she ascended to her room. Clyde merely limped away to the outside porch.

"Aw, shit!" Thomas sneezed, clutching the bag of groceries firmly against his chest. "It's not like she was even serious."

"What's that?" Craig asked, only half there. Most of his attention was focused on Tweek.

"Wendy wasn't serious," Thomas repeated, even though he knew all too well that Craig wasn't listening. "She did it wrong. You're supposed to go down the street, not across the road."

Craig snapped from his trance at this and looked down to Thomas who spat out another obscenity. "And just how would you know that?" he asked, authentically concerned. Thomas didn't answer. He just turned his back and left through the kitchen, sorting through their ingredients in spiteful silence.

"I'm sorry, Tweek," Kyle said again with finality. "We're not selling."

Tweek expressed his apparent defeat with a slam of his fists onto the counter top. Kyle didn't even jump at the outburst, mildly smiling disarmingly. "Bebe!" Tweek shrieked, leaving through the dining room with childish stomps.

"You won't sell?" Kenny implored, seeing this as an opportunity he might not get again.

"This Bed and Breakfast has a lot of memories with it," Kyle responded, glancing longingly at Stan who grinned back playfully. "You can sell possessions, but you can't sell attachments."

"Does this have anything to do with the skeletons in your basement?"

Kyle laughed, returning his attention to the register. "No, Kenny, I believe the correct saying is: skeletons in your _closet_."

"No," Kenny said, shortly. "That's not what I meant."

Kyle's smirk was instantly dashed from his face, his pupils dilating in understanding. He quickly shot a glance at Stan who was standing rigid at the broom. They wordlessly conversed with their eyes until, at last, Stan set the broom against the wall and made swift steps toward the basement door. Kyle reformed the grin across his lips, but couldn't hide the bead of sweat dripping from his brow. "Thank you for going into town for us," he said, his voice quivering ever so slightly.

Kenny nodded, trailing behind Butters as he went upstairs. The other blonde ground his key into the door of his room, but let his hand fall to his side without turning it. "It's so strange," Butters mused aloud, staring at the doorknob.

"What is?" Kenny asked, getting as close as he possibly dared.

"Everyone here," Butters began, his bright eyes glazing over in thought. "They're all so full of love… and yet everyone is so heartbroken. Two things that can never easily coexist." His conclusion hung in the air for a few moments before it settled into a bittersweet smile and a drop of his eyes to the floor, before he swung his attention back to the lock and entered his room.

* * *

There was still a good hour until dinner, so Kenny and Butters decided to relax. "Relax" here being defined as sitting in Butters' room together on the bed, reading from Kenny's hard bound pocket book of fairytales.

At one point, Kenny went downstairs to get Butters a glass of water. He halted gingerly on the second floor flight of stairs as he heard Stan and Kyle conversing together at the register. Their voices were low with degradation.

"I told you," Stan was saying, his words coming off sharper than he intended. "Stacking the bricks wasn't good enough. You have to use mortar to be _sure_ they stay in place."

"Stan, it was years ago," Kyle huffed, and Kenny could imagine he was pinching the brim of his nose. "We barely had enough money for the cement blocks let alone mortar."

"See what it's come to?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't necessarily expect people to be here throwing themselves against the walls of our basement!"

There was a pause as Kyle sighed, audibly releasing tension from his over taxed muscles. "No," he revised, feeling ashamed. "You're right, Stan. You're absolutely right. This is all my fault. If only I had been smarter… we wouldn't have had to buy the mortar… we wouldn't have had to buy the bricks! If it wasn't for my stupidity… none of this would ever have happened."

Clothes ruffled as Stan pulled Kyle in for a hug. The "Don't blame yourself" was unspoken, but even Kenny could feel it in the air. They kissed and Stan sighed.

"I'm sorry," he forfeited with an overly dramatic drawl.

"For what?"

"For showing off your amazingly sexy body to everyone at the Inn in some cruel and utterly immature joke this morning."

"That reminds me… you promised me make-up sex!"

Kenny smiled softly to himself and headed back up the stairs. He could get water from the bathroom sink. Besides, Stan and Kyle seemed busy, and he didn't want to interrupt them.

Butters was still in bed when he got back, so they continued the story of "Beauty and the Beast." It seemed a very apt tale to tell, in Kenny's mind at least. He didn't really know if they had finished reading it out loud – at some point they must have both fallen asleep. Though, their rest didn't last long.

The door to Butters' room flew open with a resounding crack as it had been kicked open. Kenny jolted from his slumber, but his eyes were hazy and couldn't see anything. Despite the sudden intrusion, he took the time to rub his eyes to clear away the fog. There was a shriek of pain from Butters as the bed creaked and got suddenly lighter. At the sound of his voice, Kenny's eyes shot open, instantly alert, just in time to see Tavin… dragging Butters by his hair from the bedroom doorway.

Tavin led the way down the stairs with Butters behind him, clasping his hands over his attackers arm as the roots of his hair were being pulled. Butters couldn't stand upright and had to tumble along the steps behind Tavin, bruising himself all the way down with sickening thuds and screams of agony. Kenny was right on his heels, trying to catch up, but by the time he had made it to the first floor, Tavin was already outside, skidding Butters across the hard gravel without any remorse for his well being.

The commotion was loud enough to summon everyone at the Winterbloom to the porch, racing in exigent worry, called by the screams from one of their friends. Tavin halted in the middle of the parking lot and aimed his gun at the crowd. "None of you move!" he commanded, and even the struggling Butters went limp with obedience.

"Tavin," Kenny called, trying to remain calm for Butters' sake. "Don't do anything rash, please."

"I had one rule," the brunette reminded with a dilapidated shrug. "Don't leave the Inn. That's it. But when I go into town and sit down for a nice, refreshing cup of coffee, what is the first thing I see? You and this… fucker… calling attention to yourselves by spilling drinks on cops and riding off into the sunset! Did I not specifically tell you that you were to stay put?"

"Yes, he did go into town," Kyle admitted, holding up his hands in a subconscious defense mechanism. "But Kenny came back. He didn't do anything in town. The police aren't looking for him. He didn't run away or anything. We can… we can settle this like civilized people."

"Don't preach to me," Tavin smirked, totting the pistol in his grasp, giving Butters' hair a not so gentle tug. "I had a little chat with Boss, Kenny. He says the deal is off. You're to come back with me right now. And, you know," he placed the gun to his captive's head, "I really think you'd want to comply."

Kenny was shaking with rage. It was one thing to threaten him… but threatening others. He could not stand for that. He had to do something. He had to do _something_. Kyle was saying a few things, but Kenny couldn't hear him. It wouldn't matter, anyway. Words didn't work on Tavin.

"We can do a little trade," Tavin proposed, still holding the gun to Butters' skull. "You give me Kenny and I'll hand over this faggot." Kenny's eyes glinted passionately. Tavin must have seen this because his grin grew wider and more malicious. "Or…" he started again, enjoying the tension he was causing. "We could do a different trade. You keep Kenny… and I take this one back to New York instead."

"No!" Kenny shouted, bolting from the porch. He had to force himself to stop as Tavin pressed the gun harder, causing Butters to cower in timorous deportment.

Tavin straightened out his back and redirected his crosshairs, setting his sights on Kenny, glaring down the barrel of the gun with glee. "Which will it be," he mused, his finger on the trigger. "You've got five seconds before everyone dies; starting with this blonde and ending with you. Just so you can have the pleasure of watching all your friends bleed to death before your miserable life is finally –"

Tavin's elbow snapped and the pistol fell to the ground. It was followed by a hard back hand to his nose and a right jab across the face. His head was bloodied again as a tone forearm smashed into him, sending him sprawling to the ground. A dark commando boot kicked away Tavin's gun and there was a tiny clack from a lighter being lit.

"I go away for a couple of minutes and everything goes to shit," Christophe growled, taking in a triumphant drag from his cig, standing tall above the beaten aggressor. The rest of the gang hurriedly flew towards the scene, picking Butters up from the ground and pulling him away to safety.

Kenny remained idle, shell shocked and stunned. Butters' life was that close… _that close_ to ending. It was unbelievable. Unbearable. He looked down to his feet and his heart pounded in his chest as he saw Bebe's discarded purse still there upon the porch. He took slow, deliberate steps toward it and reached inside.

The group was hushed and Kenny stepped forward, his face darkened with an irreproachable scowl. Even the birds seemed to quiet as he towered above Tavin, Bebe's Taurus Millennium quivering in his tightened grip. He got down to one knee and inched the muzzle of the gun directly beneath Tavin's chin. Nobody moved to stop him.

"What?" Tavin wheezed, his broken nose trailing a single drop of blood down his mouth. "You're going to shoot me? After all we've been through?"

Silence.

Tavin laughed, even with the pistol gouging into his trachea. "That's rich! That's funny! It really is, Kenny! It's hilarious!"

Silence.

"You can't kill me," Tavin assured, remaining confident, peering over the brims of his glasses with glimmering eyes. "You don't have what it takes. You're a coward. You've always been a coward. That's why it's always been so easy to control you these past ten years. You couldn't fend for yourself, and you can't now."

Silence.

"You can't kill me," Tavin grumbled again, grinning through his teeth. "You're powerless against someone like me."

Kenny moved the gun and placed the tip of it right in the middle of Tavin's forehead. He clenched his jaw and hissed, "You'd be surprised how much power someone can have… when the gun is in the other hand."

"Oh, please, Kenny, spare me the –"

Bang!

Kenny got to his feet, aiming the gun again.

Bang!

It was only fair to shoot them more than once.

Bang! Bang!

Kenny shot him again. A fifth time. A sixth time. It was only fair. A seventh time. An eighth time. Only fair. A ninth. A tenth. The gun was empty, but that didn't stop Kenny from pulling the trigger.

Click. Click, click. Click… click, click, click, click click click click clickclickclickclick!

"Kenny!" Kyle called, taking the weeping boy's hand in his own. "I think he's dead now. You can stop. It's over." Kenny let the pistol fall from his fingers with a pained gasp, feeling the tears burn as they streamed past his eyes.

It's over? It's _over_?

It is never over….

* * *

_The pain was almost too much to bear. This man was insane. _

_Kenny was tied to the bed post so tightly that his wrists were already raw. He could do nothing but scream as the knife cut into him, just enough to draw blood but not enough to kill. He was naked and defenseless, being used for the pleasure of a deranged psychopath._

_It was then that the man drew the gun. He shot it once at the ceiling to prove that it was loaded before stuffing it into Kenny's mouth and down his throat. He couldn't drown out the laughs as the man continued to rape him._

Somebody help me_, Kenny cried in his mind. _Please, god, this is too much!

_Something like this had never happened to Kenny before. In his ten years of imprisonment in this fucking hell hole, his life was never this much in danger. He had never been more frightened in his entire life. The man toyed maniacally with the trigger, playing a game of chicken, relishing Kenny's muffled whimpers as he tried to beg for his life._

_The door to room number four burst open and Butch grappled the man by his torso, lifting him off and out of Kenny with a bloody wrench. Tavin quickly followed, forcing the customer to hand over his pistol. _

"_I'm sorry, sir," Tavin said. "But this is strictly against the rules."_

"_I paid my money!" the crazed man shouted, fighting against Butch's hold. "Even double the price! You can't kick me out."_

"_Who said anything about that?" Tavin scoffed, raising an eyebrow. He removed the clip from the gun and poured out the remaining bullets before snapping it back in place. He pocketed the metal slugs into his trench coat and Butch let the man go. "Here," Tavin said, giving the man back his pistol. "You can keep the gun, you can keep the knife, just don't kill him, alright?"_

"_Tavin!" Kenny shrieked, writhing beneath his bonds as they grew crimson with his bleeding flesh. "Tavin, please! Stop this! I'm scared, so scared!"_

_The brunette glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to the customer. "You may continue," he stated, following Butch out the door and closing it behind him with a deft slam._

_The insane man once again shoved the barrel of the pistol back into Kenny's mouth and went to work with the knife, carving morbidly beautiful patterns into the soft, pale skin. Kenny could do nothing but cry._

_As soon as his wounds had healed, Kenny collected everything that he still owned into his lone, red duffle bag, and in the early morning, while everyone was still asleep… he ran._

* * *

"So…" Kyle began, absolutely stymied. "All of this time… all of these years… you've been in New York? Trafficked into a prostitution ring?"

All Kenny could muster in response was a half hearted nod.

"It's almost too much to believe, I… I don't know what to say."

Neither did Kenny.

They continued down the stairs into the basement. Stan had offered to collect Tavin's remains and join them in a minute. Everyone else had adjourned for the evening except for Kyle, Kenny, and Christophe.

The Frenchman was ahead of Kyle and Kenny, already turning on the light for the cellar and making his way towards the collapsed wall. From there, he unceremoniously grabbed the already rotting corpse as it festered in its dingy clothes, bones already starting to show behind the melting flesh. He tossed it to one side and began digging through the rubble.

"You keep dead bodies behind false walls in your basement?" Kenny asked, still in a daze. Kyle tried to smile comfortingly, but failed. Kenny watched as Christophe disappeared behind the wall and came back out carrying an AK-47 and an ammo box full of grenades.

Kyle shrugged, slowly rubbing Kenny's back in a consoling gesture.

"Among other things…."

* * *

**End of Part Two**


End file.
